Week 4

Monday February 23rd

I still can’t believe she wants a divorce. It can’t be anything I’ve done – she’s talking out of her arse there. I’ve just been myself, and she knew who I was when she married me, the forked tail and horns are a dead give away. So all that “You only care about yourself” and “You never once wore the cardigan I knitted you” crap is just rubbish. It has to be a cover for something else – something she’s done, not me. I think she must have another bloke somewhere. If she does then he’s got to be an idiot. You don’t knock off Satan’s wife and expect to get away with it. I think I’ll put Himmler on it – the golf club stuff can wait for a bit. If she is seeing someone else then I’ll make them both pay. I might speak to Him Upstairs and see if he’ll do that vomiting-frogs thing on her for me. He still owes me one for sorting out that mess with the homosexual Angel and the Beast of Bodmin Moor. It’s almost time for our monthly meeting anyway, so I’ll bring it up then. I must remember to talk him about that Colin / Ming cock up too. Someone in his HR department needs a good kicking for that one.

Tuesday February 24th

I got a ‘Verbal Warning’ at bowling because of the creases in my Whites! The nerve of it! 400 years I’ve been going there. Never missed a subs payment, never once killed another player, and that’s the thanks I get. Where’s the compassion? I’ve a good mind to quit. That’ll show them.
I got another present from my secret admirer. It was chocolates today (Strawberry-Cremes - urrghh!) and another little poem. “I’d love to feel your horn and hooves / Your scales and blistered skin / Godless not yet loveless / Open up and let me in / I can be your despot / I can even be your sin / I’ll be your own dictator / Open up and let me in” This time I did vomit. All over my desk (and over the photo of Sandra, which is a nice bit of irony for you). Once Gerald had cleared it all up I told him that I want him in early in future to try and catch who ever is doing this. I want them found, and I want them punished. I will not tolerate love-poets in Hell, it’s just the way it is. They’re contagious. Everything is fine and dandy, then someone gets a love poem and before you know they’ve sent someone else one who sends someone else one and then where does it end? I’ll tell you where it ends: with a Hell full of vomit and no bugger fit to do any work. I won’t have it. I’m going to find them all, every last one of them and dip their eyes in acid. And next year I’m banning Valentines Day.

Wednesday February 25th

Doctor Malloy says my anger is starting to show through again, and I need to take up a martial-art to calm me down. He said that pent up aggression is bad for me, and I need to let it out. He was right of course, and I’ll tell him so when he gets out of hospital. I feel a lot calmer now I’ve beaten the crap out of him.

Thursday February 26th

Dinner with God tonight. It’s his turn to pay so we’re going to some posh place on the outskirts of Cloud City. I hope it’s not black tie. My tux is crumpled and I’ve no idea how to iron it. I wonder if he’s ever got divorced. I don’t think he has, but we’ve all had so many wives since it all began that it’s hard to remember. I know there was at least one He didn’t get on with too well, but I’m pretty sure that she ended up ascending to higher plane or something, and they never actually had to go through the courts to end it. I’ll have to ask Him later.
Gerald is settling in well. He’s got his head round the filing now, and his tea is always spot on. He’s still got a bit to learn about screening my visitors (he let Bygraves in yesterday – which Peter would NEVER have done – and it took me 2 hours to get rid of him) but that will come in time. All in all, I think he’ll work out splendidly.

Friday February 27th

Sandra’s put a lock on the fridge! Bitch! She says that if I want food then I’ll have to buy it myself, and a fridge to keep it in too. What next? A partition down the middle of the toaster? She’s starting to get on my tits. I never noticed how petty she was before. Maybe I should just give her the divorce and have done with it. Bloody woman.
Talking of people who piss me off, that bloody poet is back again. Gerald came in 3 hours early but she still got there first. When does she sleep, for Christ’s sake? She’s getting worryingly obsessive. Today she left me an embroidered cushion and a single After-Eight mint. No poem today though, so that’s something to be grateful for. I ripped up the cushion and gave the After Eight to Gerald, because he likes minty things. He says they’re good for covering up the taste of poison. Whatever floats your boat I guess.
God was on good form last night. He says he’s discovered the joys of mid-morning television, and he’s never been happier. He especially likes that one with the suntanned gypsy who sells antiques. He says its very calming, and I could do worse than build it in to my schedule too. Apparently, once he’s had an hour of that he can face all the woes of the world and not turn a hair. I doubt it’s really all that good, but I’ll give it a go. It can’t hurt. He says if I like it then he’ll lend me his compilation DVD so I can catch up with some of the old episodes too. He’s a good bloke, is God. Shame he has to live in Heaven rather than down here really, or we could go bowling together. I bet his Whites are spotless.

Saturday February 28th

Memo to self – never, ever take Adolf to the supermarket again. Ever. He’s got some serious issues, and it’s just not worth the hassle. He was fine all morning on the golf course so when we stopped for lunch I mentioned that I was going shopping, and asked if he’d come and help me because I’d never done it before. (I know, I know: Big tough Satan scared to go shopping by himself, what a baby and all that, but stuff it up your arse - we can’t all be Jamie Oliver, and I just wanted some moral support). I should’ve smelt trouble straight away I guess, just from his initial reaction. Most blokes would just have just said “Yeah, ok then” or “Sod off you big pouf” and that would be that, but Adolf’s eyes lit up like fire-pits and he almost bit my arm off, he was so excited. He was hyper all the way there, chewing his lips, jumping up and down in his seat, muttering under his breath… I should have smelt a rat, no doubt about it. But I was so relieved to have company that I just glossed over it. When we got there he was out the car door and into CashSave before I’d even turned off the engine! I legged it in there after him, and what followed was probably the most harrowing hour of my life.
As I now know, supermarkets are very, very busy on Saturday afternoons. They’re packed to the rafters with mothers, children and people of all shapes and races. That’s good for the supermarket, but unfortunately it’s not good for Adolf. He’s what you call ‘narrow-minded’ when it comes to that sort of thing. If you’re Aryan then you’ll get on with him ok, but if you’re not then there’s nothing he enjoys more than pinning you up against walls and shouting in your face until you cry. He’d already worked his way down the whole dairy aisle (two negro housewives and Woody Allen’s mum) and part of the cooked meats section (Barbara Streisand will never be the same) before I caught up with him and tried to pull him away from Chairman Mao. I never realised before just how strong Adolf is. He looks so harmless in his little brown braces and polished shoes, but he’s got hidden power in those arms, especially when he’s rabid. He shook me off like a rag doll and threw me all the way across the aisle, then legged it off to the curry-section to berate Clive Of India. He was like a hurricane. It took me the best part of an hour to get him out of there, by which time the whole shop looked like a bombsite. I only got him out in the end by telling him that I’d set up a soap box for him in the car park so he could hold a rally. It was carnage. When I did get him outside it was to find Eva pulling up in their Mercedes, with a face like thunder. It turns out that someone at the golf club had told her where we were going, and I’m very glad they did. She managed to force a couple of pills down his throat and within a minute he was sleeping like a baby. Then she turned on me. I won’t repeat what she said, but suffice to say I wasn’t popular. She said it was all my fault and I should’ve know better, and that I’d let Adolf down… yada yada yada. But how was I supposed to know he’d act like that? I’m not psychic. When she’d had her fill of shouting she bundled him off in the car and left me to face the music with the CashSave Manager, who was just as unhappy as she was. Sometimes there are days when you just should’ve stayed in bed.

Sunday March 1st

Stayed in bed most of the day, as there didn’t seem much point in getting up. There’s still nothing in the house for me to eat (I’m going to send Gerald shopping for me tomorrow – I’m never setting foot in a supermarket again) and Sandra was stomping about in a mood anyway, so I just lay there and read Mein Kampf. I wish I’d read it before, because if I had I might have known better than to take Adolf shopping. I called Eva this afternoon to smooth things over, and I think it’s ok now. Adolf has gone to a ‘clinic’ to calm down though, so I doubt he’ll make it for golf next weekend. I’ll have to play with Not-Jeffrey instead – I just hope he doesn’t bring that weirdo again.
I think Gerald is settled in enough now to cope by himself, so I’m going to book a holiday. Nothing fancy, just somewhere that isn’t here. I’ll sort it out tomorrow when he gets back from shopping. If I don’t get away soon I’ll end up in that ‘clinic’ with Adolf.
Roll on March, I say. It’s got to be better than February.