The Gospel of Mark appeared in my pidge the other day. It was hardly a miraculous discovery, but it did make me feel slightly odd, recalling as it did a slightly unpleasant memory from school. You see, I took a test online once, when I was sixteen and still in the closet, albeit with a lot of other men and none of us wearing many clothes, but I was inside it nonetheless.
It was a multiple choice set-up that determined which of the nine circles of Dante’s Hell you would end up in when you died. Nine is the worst; as in, you’re literally the log on Satan’s fire, with the Dark Lord himself pouring buckets of your own piss over you as petroleum, with your eyes gouged out and your bollocks shoved in the gaping holes instead. Yeah. So I got put in eight. Apparently buggery and petty theft can only ever see you going down. Deeply down.
And just when I thought I couldn’t get any deeper, I went out to a popular student night on Sunday for the first time. This wasn’t a club night: this was Dante getting me back for all the things I’ve done since I last filled in his questionnaire.
“You’ve been a bad boy,” he seemed to be saying. (I was in the queue at the time this happened, and turned to check if I was hallucinating. You’ll be reassured to know I was. It definitely wasn’t the bouncer, although I did later get his number. Delightful man. Trimmed).
It became clear that I’d never got off that sinful train when I was sixteen. I’d gone straight through the eighth circle and had just arrived at the ninth and final stop: Hell, Satan’s batch-pad, Sunday Life.
Possibly because of the Gospel appearing earlier that day, possibly because I have a desire to mentally scar myself, whatever the reason, I wasn’t drinking. But I was there. And so was everyone else. Drunk. Hammered. Pissed like a fart. Tits out, checked shirts, and skirts you could only ever get at New Look in the sale. Apocalypse? Uh yeah: Now.
Despite being sober, the room was spinning. One girl in particular, who seemed to take a fancy to my petite form and come-to-bed-because-frankly-i-think-it’d-be-better-for-everyone-if-you-just-fucking-laid-down-you-slaaag eyes, was writhing with such gusto by the bar it looked like her face was being spewed from her jugs. That she was also discreetly vomming back down her cleavage can only substantiate my simile. But I decided not to be too judgemental; she was after all, off her knockers. So I politely knocked her to the floor and pushed a twenty up her skirt to cover the taxi ride home (and the inevitable interior cleaning costs that would follow).
I thought it couldn’t get any worse, and then I turned round to find my nose, already assaulted by that really weird smell in there that no one ever quite wants to definitively locate, embedded in the sweaty, heaving pit of a Blue who I know for a fact usually pays better attention to his personal hygiene than this. He then seemed to lean in towards my female friend, before realising she wasn’t actually a slag, and shoved her over, dribbling ‘Soweee’ as he stumbled, cock half out, to hump that tramp I myself had just raised to the ground moments, joyous moments, before.
It was at this point that I had a bit of an epiphany. This is such a load of old shit, I thought; no doubt there’s a girl who, so inebriated, is at this very moment cacking her belt (as if she’d be wearing a skirt, or underwear for that matter). So I left. And I decided: I’m never doing this again.
Never, of course, lasted until the following Tuesday, when I went to the Mahal. There really is nothing like eating a curry that tastes like the vomit you know will be back on your plate within the next half hour, whilst watching two freshers make out so earnestly they don’t even realise they’ve had a lamb bhuna tipped on their heads (and yes, the Tab did get pics).
Safely back home, with the Gospel on my desk, suddenly Sodom and Gommorah never looked so civilised. Dante’s definitely going to have to re-evaluate that questionnaire; Hell’s looking like it’s going to be pretty full quite soon.