Jess Murray

Satanic Rituals Have No Place In Cambridge

When I was 12 I ordered the Satanic Bible off the internet. I couldn’t wait: 150 pages of self-indulgent, needlessly sadistic bull shit written by some sweaty looking bald man sporting a goatee. Admittedly, it was purchased in the hope of some sort of justification for the desires I harboured to burn down my school. The day it arrived my mum got to it before I did, opened up the parcel while I was in my maths lesson, (I now believe the fact that I had ordered it on her credit card, using her name and address, had something to do with that) only to read the blurb, tell me I was a silly twat and throw it in the bin.

In truth, I felt totally vanquished: all of my majestic plans of secondary school domination ruined. So in the spirit of ultimate revenge and rebellion, I drew a pentagram in the Bible I’d been given as a graduation present from my Church of England primary school, said a prayer to God that included really bad swear words, and told my friends my mum had burnt it in some obscene Christian ritual to make the anecdote at least a bit cool. She hadn’t though, she had just put spaghetti bolognese on top of it so that I wouldn’t retrieve it from the bin.

I was 13. I was the fucking king. I’d spray my pseudo-Gareth-Gates hairstyle fire-red and the whole of Palmers Green would quiver in my flaming presence (apart from the kids that would try and mug me). That was until I’d get into my parents car, stain the headrest red and get Smiffy hairspray cans banned from my life as well. I even bought that Marilyn Manson t-shirt that so innovatively told you to kill god, your parents, and then as if you hadnʼt committed enough sin and pain already: kill yourself. That also got confiscated, and probably disposed of, though I like to think that my mum, in fits of middle-aged rage, has paraded around in it for 8 years in her bedroom when no one is looking.

Fucking the system was awesome. Fucking absolutely fucking awesome as fuck, and I’m swearing here simply to fucking emphasise that fucking point and hoping you’ll think I’m cool like John Lydon. Tonight, in a nostalgic turn, I thought it would be nice to revisit the brief death metal era of the emotionally complex part of my life and see how it fared 9 years on. Most upsettingly my childhood hero of Never Mind the Buzzocks fame now looks like Robin Williams on crystal meth. Life has a way of making the best things dirty, shameful and depressing, just like flared jeans (I also had a pair of them once – then I got bullied for wearing them).

As I sat there, feeling dejected, confused and betrayed, I realized there is nothing to rebel against anymore. Iʼm a happy student, studying archaeology at Cambridge, living with a group of people who I adore and love with all my heart. Hopefully Iʼll get a nice job, get married, and have people relate fond memories of me at my funeral, which will have nice canapés at the reception. But maybe I owe it to my younger self to try and resurrect that spirit that I swore to dedicate my life to whilst ritually pricking myself with an Oxford Mathematics compass in front of a forest-pine scented tea light at the period I started to grow pubic hair.

As a person, I try my best. So with Cannibal Corpse playing in the background, I searched the darkest recesses of soul vowing to relive that blood-pounding pubescent period again, if only for two more paragraphs. I might even join in a hypothetical mosh pit now that Iʼm over 16; but probably not, because Iʼm borderline ten stone, bruise really easily and have always been scared of other, bigger boys. But even so, here we are: 3 groundbreaking death metal albums, straight from the Abyss (obviously) that I am eagerly anticipating being the soundtrack of my, and hopefully your, Lent term:

1. When burning in realization you chose the wrong subject.                                                                                                                            2. When burning with humiliation while trying to pull.
3. When burning with a full bladder.

And if you’re still not convinced the spirit of teenage rebellion is tragically no longer cool and/or relevant to the over 14s, I have written every word of this on my knees in the kitchen in between washing everyone else’s dishes. I’m also wearing rubber gloves. And listening to Magic FM.

See you in Hell.