Week 5

Monday March 2nd
For once I was glad it was Monday. It was nice to get out of the house for a while, and even nicer to go somewhere where I’m the boss and no-one can shout at me. I sent Gerald to the shops and he came back with enough food to last a fortnight, so at least I won’t starve now. And I’ve ordered a fridge online too, it’ll be delivered tomorrow. I’m going to put it in my bedroom and booby trap the door so that Sandra can’t get into it. In a way though I hope she tries – if she blows her head off then I won’t have to bother with the divorce.
I managed to sneak up to the TV Room this morning to watch that antique program God was talking about. I can’t say that I’m as impressed by it as he was, but I have to admit that it’s got its charms. That perma-tanned man is weird! He looks like a talking walnut. I’ll give it another go tomorrow and see if it grows on me. I also managed to book a holiday at last. I’ve got a week in Reading starting next Monday. I wanted somewhere that wasn’t Hell (I get recognised everywhere I go) but was more fun than Heaven (bloody harps playing everywhere all the time) so I had to pick somewhere in the Land Of The Living, which isn’t ideal because it’s always cold. I’ll have to remember to take a big coat. I picked Reading because the guide books said it’s very similar to Hell in a lot of ways – chain shops, lots of crime, streets full of scum and layabouts, traffic queues that go on for miles – and I fancied a home away from home. I’ll have to go in disguise of course, so tomorrow I’m going to nip across to the Possessions Department and see what they’ve got available next week. It’s amazing how many people in The ‘Living make promises they shouldn’t when they want something bad enough! Last time I went on holiday (it seems like years ago now) I went as a mass murderer and stayed in a fantastic hotel for two weeks with bed and board, a gym and cable television - and they didn’t charge me a penny! ‘Death Row’ it was called. Somewhere in Alabama. It was brilliant! Reading won’t be anywhere near that good, but it’ll be better than being here and that’s all that matters.
It turns out that Gerald is a dab hand with the iron, so I won’t get shouted at by the Bowling Committee tonight. Things are definitely looking up.

Tuesday March 3rd
The Possession is all sorted. I’m going to take over a man called Phil Crowsley, who works at the local McDonalds. He promised me his soul in return for a nude picture of Bruce Forsythe, which creeps me out slightly but a holiday is a holiday, and there weren’t that many Reading souls to choose from. It was a straight choice between Phil and lady who runs a local charity. She had a nicer house, car and kitchen than Phil, but in the end I just couldn’t face the thought of having to sit down to pee. It goes against the grain. So Phil it is, and I’m excited already. A whole week away from Sandra!
I got Himmler’s final report on the hot-water breakdowns today. Disappointingly it turns out that it wasn’t a conspiracy, just a cock up with their routing-systems. So I can’t feed Cromwell to the Venus Fly traps after all. Bugger. Himmler was disappointed too – he hates rational explanations – so to cheer him up I put him on to The Case Of My Wife’s Secret Lover. I gave him 24 hours to get to the bottom of it, and promised him a new torture-chamber if I like the results. I'll be interested to see what he comes up with.
My new fridge arrived today, and it's already my favourite thing in the whole house. It's got 3 shelves, a freezer section and a little box to keep lettuce in (although I hate lettuce, so I'm going to fill that up with peanut M&Ms). Best of all, my room is so small that I can reach the fridge without even getting out of bed! At this very minute I'm warm in bed with a plate of cocktail-sausages balanced on the pillow beside me, and if I wake up hungry in the night I just need to roll over, snag a chicken leg or three from the middle shelf and gorge to my heart's content. What more could a man need?

Wednesday March 4th
Himmler was as good as his word, and had the report in to me by 9am. All 495 pages of it. He must've stayed up all night, bless him. It turns out that Sandra was sleeping with Cromwell all along! Apparently they met at the gym a few years ago and have been doing the dirty ever since. I know it sounds unlikely, but Himmler’s evidence is very conclusive so it must be true. So I’m afraid that under the Articles Of Hell Subsection 12, Paragraph 4 (Personal Loyalty To Satan; Punishments For Failure Thereof) I had absolutely no choice but to banish Sandra to Lytham St Annes for the next 2000 years. And under Subsection 12, Paragraph 6 (Forfeiture of Goods And Possessions) I’m sorry to say that everything she owns is now mine. Including the fridge. Boo hoo, oh how I’ll miss her, if only things were different. Etc. I sent the Banishment Squad round as soon as I got the report this morning, and by the time I got home tonight she was gone. She didn’t even leave a note! On the plus side, Cromwell is now happily feeding Ted’s Venus Fly Traps, and will be for at least a millennium, I would guess. Unless I get bored and move him somewhere else, which is unlikely. And Himmler is absolutely thrilled with his new torture-chamber. It’s got barbed wire handcuffs and everything – very chic! All in all, a very successful day was had by all. Except Sandra and Cromwell of course, but they don’t count.

Thursday March 5th
My first day as a free man. I breakfasted naked this morning, then left the washing-up to do tonight. And when I get home there’s football on the telly. I’m loving the house being mine, mine all mine! I can do exactly what I want with it. I’m going to start by getting rid of Sandra’s horrible wallpaper. She may have been good in bed but her interior design tastes sucked. I’m going to shuffle all the rooms round too. I’m going to keep sleeping in the spare room (I like having the fridge by the bed), and I’m going to knock a doorway through into the main bedroom which I’ll turn into a torture-chamber. I really liked Ming’s ensuite, and Himmler’s new one is lovely so it’s only fair that I get in on the act.
My day was slightly soured when I got to work to find another poem on my desk. No present this time – thankfully – but a poem is bad enough. It was different today, not quite as lovey dovey (which I suppose is a good thing) but if I’m honest it made me slightly nervous: “Satan with your reddish skin / You are a lovely man / I’d like to hold you in my arms / And feed you quiche and ham / You never even notice me / Perhaps you will quite soon / What’s red and looks like candles and can make a noise like ‘BOOM!’..?” Bloody woman. She’s a mentalist. She’s obviously sneaking in in the early hours, so I’ve ordered Gerald to live in the office until further notice. And he’s not allowed to sleep either. He can kip in the day between noon and 3pm (I’ll use the time to nip out and play golf) but at night time I expect him to be ready, alert and prepared to rip this bitch limb from limb. No more Mr Nice Guy!
I must remember to go and see Dr Malloy tomorrow. I’ll take him some grapes and let him read the diary. There’s no reason my therapy should suffer just because he’s in hospital, the lazy sod.

Friday March 6th
Not a lot happened today. Work was pretty standard – no more poems and no major incidents to speak of. I got a bit annoyed with Gerald this afternoon though. He’s getting nervous about being left in charge next week, and he kept asking me question after question after question. ‘Can I do this when you’re away?’ ‘Can I do that when you’re away?’ ‘What happens if I do something else while you’re away?’ I know that it’s only to be expected, and I’d be more worried if he didn’t ask me anything at all, but by Christ it’s a pain the arse. I very nearly stuffed his head in the kettle and boiled him in his own tea. I only held back because I remembered what a chore it was finding him in the first place. Good assistants are hard to come by, and that’s doubly true for good assistants who make good tea. So I bit my tongue and answered his questions, and then pissed off early for a round of golf. I’m sure he’ll be fine, he’s a capable bloke. And if he messes things up then he messes things up – who gives a damn? This is Hell after all – it’s supposed to be a nightmare.
The house was cold and empty when I got back so I went over to Ming’s, and we sat on his porch drinking beer. It was very peaceful. There’s a lot more to Ming than world-domination and hedonistic parties. I’d never have guessed it, but he’s a pretty Zen bloke when it comes down to it. He’s got his torture chamber set up to follow feng-shui, and he even does meditation. His dad was a Buddhist monk, and brought him up to believe in re-incarnation and Karma and all that crap. He snapped out of it when he was a teenager (his dad had burnt himself by then) but he still uses a lot of the techniques. He said that meditation makes him a better fighter, but I was pretty drunk by that point so I can’t remember why. He sent me home with a DVD of Enter The Dragon and said it would ‘open my eyes to the ways of the world’. That’s a little condescending – I am Satan, Lord Of Hell after all - but his heart’s in the right place so I didn’t take offence.
I’m in bed now eating chicken with Branston Pickle and watching a Learning-Zone documentary on plate tectonics. It’s very dull, but strangely compelling. And the woman is fit, which always helps.

Saturday March 7th
How the Hell do you get Branston Pickle out of a duvet cover? I think I’ll just throw the damn thing away, it’s probably easier.
Golf with Not-Jeffrey this morning. Luckily his weird effeminate friend was ill today so I was spared all that squealing and clapping, thank Christ. Not-Jeffrey himself was in one of his “I’m so depressed” moods though and hardly said more than two words at a time all the way round, so you can imagine what a fun morning I had. If Adolf isn’t better by next Saturday I may just skip the golf and squeeze lemons in my eyes all morning – it’ll be more enjoyable than 4 hours with Not-Jeffrey.
I spent the afternoon in front of the telly, watching Colombo Weekend on The Crime Channel. How does he always know who it is? He never gets it wrong, ever. It’s amazing. Even Himmler doesn’t have a win-ratio that high, and he uses torture. I reckon he must be a secret psychic or something. Either that or he’s got a little niece that solves all the crimes for him, then lets him take the credit. That’s how Inspector Gadget does it. Maybe Colombo is Gadget, but in disguise. That’d be a turn up for the books.
BORED! And I can’t make the cooker work so it’s take-away chicken again. I don’t think I can face any more Colombo, and there’s nothing else on unless you count the new series of This Is Your Death, which I don’t because it’s shit. Why is telly so rubbish? It pisses me off! I’m the High Lord Of Hell! Surely if I demand good telly on a Saturday night then I should have good telly on a Saturday night! What’s the point of being Satan if I have to be bored like everyone else! I’ll have to do something about it when I get back off holiday. I’ll have Bygraves in and haul him over the coals. TV was never this bad before he took over. Maybe I’ll sack him and put someone else in charge.
I’m off to Ming’s for a beer -there’s sod all else to do. Bastard Bygraves.

Sunday March 8th
Holiday tomorrow, and not a moment too soon. This place is driving me mad. I was at a loose end this morning so I tried to knock through the bedroom wall to make the ensuite. I did it in the wrong place and ended up cracking the water pipe – BOLLOCKS! I managed to seal the crack with some silicone but not before the bedroom floor was an inch deep in water. Now all my clothes are sopping wet and I can’t dry them because I don’t know how the tumble-dryer works. And then the man on Plumber-Line Direct said that the silicone won’t hold for more than a few days, so I’ll have to get someone in to fit new pipework, which will cost an arm and a leg. And I can’t trust anyone to come in here alone while I’m away so I’ll have to come home early to supervise, so that’s my holiday ruined before it starts. And to top it all I still can’t work the cooker. I’m dying for a Sunday-roast but all I’ve got are two sausage rolls and a pint of milk. It’s all Sandra’s fault! If she hadn’t filed for divorce then I wouldn’t have had to banish her and I wouldn’t have tried to knock through the wall and my clothes wouldn’t be wet and most of all she’d know how to cook me a bloody roast! Damn that woman! Banishment is too good for her – I should’ve fed her to Cerberus.
I’m off to bed now. It’s only 8pm but if I stay up any longer then I’ll probably end up setting fire to the house and yelling at the moon. It’d be therapeutic, but it’d also end up in the papers and that’s something I don’t need. It’s hard enough running things as it is - if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from Mein Kampf it’s that people don’t respect insane dictators, and one ‘Mad-Dog Satan is Off His Trolley” headline could make my job impossible. So it’s off to bed with a bottle of whiskey and the rest of Sandra’s Night Nurse. You can stick today up your arse.