Hell

The queue would be bloody massive for a start, and imagine how horrible the bouncers at the gates of Hell are going to be. Literally 100 times worse than the bouncers for Oceana.
"Can I see your I.D mate?" says one of them, literally 15 feet tall and wearing the biggest bouncer coat you've ever seen. I wonder where bouncers get those coats from anyway? A specialist company or something maybe. Doesn't really matter anymore anyways, you're in HELLLL.
"Is that really necessary? I'm dead."
"Are you getting lippy mate?" says the bouncer, with the other one approaching quietly so as to maybe slap you on the head if you say one more thing even slightly out of line. I saw a bouncer slap a guy right on his bald head once and it was so loud, I'm serious. It was like fucking thunder.
"No no, I mean it's just I lost my wallet in the transition between the physical and eternal plane that's all, I'm sorry."
After a very long and tedious argument with the two demonic bouncers, with them being even more bouncer-stubborn and bouncer-stupid than the ones on Earth, you eventually get in. Once inside you realise you've sort of stitched yourself up a bit by trying so hard to get into Hell because it's meant to be bloody horrible, but you don't have much time to think about it because somebody barges into you.
"Oh sorry mate," you say instinctively, being quite an easy-going and respectable fellow. The person you bumped into, who happens to be Harold Shipman, seems puzzled at your politeness.
"Is that a joke? Why are you still being polite when you're in Hell? It's not like you're trying to get on any celestial entity's good side now, is it?" he reasons.
"Well that's not the reason I was polite on Earth, it just seems right, like."
Harold Shipman frowns at you like you're fucking mental.
"You're not right, mate!" he stammers, walking off and sitting by a burning pile of corpses or something similarly Hellish. You consider following him and continuing your debate, seeing as you're not entirely sure what else to do with yourself, but decide against it because he smelt a bit like B.O anyway. So, you just sort of dawdle around for a few hours, occasionally stumbling a bit on a pitchfork, and end up getting a bit bored.
"Thought Hell was meant to be worse than this. I'm just bored," you say aloud. The landscape doesn't help matters, it's just red, barren, and a bit flamey. Not even many landmarks to break the place up a bit or anything. However, you see Hitler and Stalin playing badminton and head over to them.
"Alright lads?" you ask, causing Stalin to lose concentration on the game and concede a point.
"Oh fucking cheers mate," he says. The atmosphere gets a bit tense so you move on again.
Thankfully after a while you see what looks like some sort of an establishment in the distance so you head towards this. It turns out to be a swanky nightclub with pumping choons and disco lights and a smoke machine and stuff, and free entry because the management accept that most people lost their wallets in the transition period between Earth and Hell. You're still puzzled as to why you haven't been tortured or at least beaten up yet. Generally you're finding Hell to be something of an anti-climax. You head over to the bar and order a drink.
"A pint please, mate."
"Sorry mate we don't do beer here," the demonic bar man says, who has the face of agony itself.
"Oh right, what do you do?"
"Urm. We do poison ....and......uh....we've got some sulphuric acid....some bile....and some Bacardi Breezers."
"Oh right, maybe I'll leave it then."
As you say this you see an extremely well-dressed and confident looking man stroll over to the bar and get a really bloody nice cocktail. You're absolutely outraged.
"Oy what's that all about? Why does he get a cocktail?" you ask the agony-faced barman, who also has the voice of eternal despair.
"I'd keep your voice down a bit mate, that's Lucifer, he runs this place."
"Oh I see, it's one rule for him and another for the rest of us. Well I've got a bit of a bone to pick with him anyway."
So you make your way through the packed dancefloor, which is filled with people like Atilla the Hun and Jack the Ripper, and tap Lucifer on the shoulder. He's just in the middle of chatting up Cleopatra so he's a bit annoyed at the interruption.
"Yes, what?"
"What's going on, I swear Hell is meant to be eternal torture and punishment and shit. I've been here for like 4 hours now and absolutely bugger-all has happened. What are you playing at, basically?"
Lucifer looks somewhat sheepish at this.
"Listen mate, leave it out. I'm proper snowed under at work at the moment and I haven't really had time to get everybody tortured and stuff....."
"What do you mean 'snowed under at work'? Where do you work?"
"Dixons, I'm a departmental manager."
"Dixons?...." you haven't got time to question him further because Sex On Fire comes on and everybody goes absolutely mental and you get pushed away from him.
Unfortunately you don't bump into him for the rest of the night, so you resort to getting drunk on arsenic and hanging out with Frank Sinatra.
"So did you get loads of people killed in the 50's, then?" you ask him really loudly in his ear. He pretends he doesn't hear you.
So yes, the apathy of our age has even spread to the eternal circles of Hell. Unbelievable isn't it? But in some respect you feel quite lucky that you ended up in Hell, because you realise that Heaven has probably gone a similar way and God can't really be arsed to dish out splendours and joy anymore.
"I'm busy, I've got an essay due," he'd say.
What this country needs is a right kick up the arse.