Photos, finally

OK, I confess. I didn't get to an internet café on my flathunting trip.

I did however find an internet pub, in Tír Nan Óg. And as promised, here are some photos of the trip, taken with (looks at camera label) a 26 megapixels Canon with 30x optical zoom. Blimey.

I'm not a great photographer, but one can't help but take great photos when you have a camera this good. I hope they make the transition from the afterlife to Earth.



This is Oisin's Internet Pub, on the main street. It's next door to the Baile na Padraig Bike Shop and Pub and over the road from the pharmacists, which is also a pub.

As you might expect, not a lot of people use the internet in Oisin's. Instead, somehow, lots of people use the pub.

Including Walter and I, as you might see from this photo...



Now there is an excuse for this shameless debauchery. Walter didn't ask those girls to tie him up on the top of the bar like that, although he does seem to be enjoying it.

Shortly afterwards a flute player came by our table and led us on a dance around. Walter managed to get up and join us, straining the bar so much it broke, squirting beer everywhere.

Ah, that was a bit of a crazy night. Their computer equipment has got to be beerproof.

Here's a picture of Alessandro and I on the bridge in Summerlands, near the HSBC.



You can just about see the bong supermarket and the lollipop store on the right of the photo.

What's on the left of the photo—namely the red light district—cannot be described in a family blog. Let's just say it makes Amsterdam look like Kabul.

I was wondering if Alessandro was interested in a repeat of his sexual gymnastics from a couple of weeks ago. But he just shrugged.

I think he's gone off sex for a while.

A couple of other photos, one more of Summerlands.Also, a heart-stoppingly beautiful sunset over Tír Nan Óg. Or was it a sunrise? To be honest, after Oisin's, I'm not sure.

As for where I'm moving to ... um. I didn't get much flathunting done. At all.

But it's fine, because I still have my brochure on the coffeetable on my hotel, and I'll be able to get whatever I want from it, right?

Enjoy the photos. Let me know if you'd like to see more—this was an experiment after all.

Monday game 2

Play Bubble Bees [Flash]; I got 4070 on my first go. Some bees fly around in giant soap bubbles up here as well. In fact, there's a brand of washing up liquid that contains friendly bees that feed off the dirt on dinner plates and leaves them spotless.

Bees are useful.

Deathday

Today is one month exactly since I was hit by a 3553 van in Shepperton and ended up here. Walter, Alessandro and I all celebrated our one month deathdays with the largest pizza I've ever experienced. It was the size of Monaco.

Dave's gone off on tour with Buddy Holly and I think he found some nice Viking ladies to celebrate with.

I feel like I should be missing somebody or something. I'm not. I'm having an amazing time.

*

Seeing what happened the other night with the priest made me realise that heaven and hell are quite similar in many ways. It just depends on one's perspective.

Some people love rock and roll, other people hate it. Most people hate having their face rubbed in a sweaty Viking's chest but others in life would probably pay good money for it.

I wonder if hell has any exchange arrangements with heaven? What would they be? Something S&M perhaps?

*

I'm off to Tír Nan Óg and Summerlands tomorrow to look for flats (finally). I think there's an internet café in one of them—and I'm taking a camera—so I'll see you then.

Prodigal

I have literally just made it back in through the door.

We've just come back from Valhalla and the Buddy Holly concert. I wasn't expecting the concert to last three and a half days. My ears are ringing.

For some reason, Vikings really love Buddy Holly. The sight of pointy-hatted bearded warriors dancing to Maybe Baby is one that will never stop amusing me for the rest of my days in heaven, which I suppose will be eternity.

About 18 hours into the concert, I noticed a figure, clad all in black, sitting in the shadows weeping.

Who's that? I asked the bartender, as she topped up my flagon.

"That's Reverend Lachlan O'Rourke," she replied, leaning forward to sneak a glance at him and nearly popping out of her dress. "You are knowing Reverend O'Rourke?"

No?

"Well, he did lots of things, he led a very big campaign against rock music in the sixties. He was saying it was Satanic and evil. Also he did bad things with children."

The preacher hung his head. Two fat, hairy Vikings pointed at him, then ambled towards him. The bartender giggled.

"You can see that everybody here is in heaven," she whispered, beckoning me to come closer, as one of the Vikings pulled up his smock to reveal an impressively lustrous sweaty ginger chest fur.

"While this is heaven for you," she whispered, gently caressing my ear with her tongue, "it is not for Reverend Lachlan."

The other Viking grabbed the back of the preacher's head, nearly crushing it like a grape, then rubbed his face in the ginger hair up and down in time with the music.

"Ja, you spilled your mead."

I had a sudden revelation.

TV heaven

Here I am, with the whole of eternity my oyster, and I've spent most of the day indoors watching TV eating crisps. (Very nice crisps they were too—wagu beef and continental truffle.)

I can't even begin to count the amount of channels you can get on TV here, and that's not counting all the combinations of porn. Every single channel from every single country is beamed up here. I've caught up on all the Neighbours I missed since I died, for a start, and I'm trying to find the Australian channels as I type.

But there's one channel they show in heaven which I found quite compelling. It's a series of reality TV programmes, but where all the participants are members of hell. Here's a bit of this evening's schedule.

...

7.00pm The Amazing Race
Teams travel to the remote northern plains of Gehenna, where they must endure freezing conditions of -192C and 200mph blizzards of rusty nails. Can Myra and Josef work as a team to pilot their dinghy across the lake of vomit? And will Genghis and Nixon's already stormy relationship take a turn for the worse?

8.00pm Hades' Next Top Model
The contestants take to the catwalk after a sleepless night of homunculi burning their skin off with lighters and glueing it back in inappropriate places with faeces. Bonnie is told she is "oversize" and is given liposuction without anaesthetic.

9.00pm Hell's Kitchen
This week, crabmeat and sulphur pancakes with placenta sauce, served with American cheese.

10.00pm Coupling
Three thousand damned souls are put in a small room and made to watch Coupling on repeat.

Once you get used to the weeping, regret and howls of pain, it's quite funny. A bit like reality TV in the land of the living I suppose.

And you're Mary Tyler Moore

Don't ask me how, but I've managed to score four tickets to see Buddy Holly.

He's on tour right now, and he's going to be playing the Ragna Röck Bar in Valhalla on Friday.

Can't wait.

*

A lot of the main cities here seem to be named after various earthly descriptions of heaven. I've already been to Summerlands, which I believe is what the Wiccans call it here. It's a cross between Amsterdam, Brighton and that weird road in every city where all the Goths hang out.

I just mentioned Valhalla. According to the rental brochure on my desk, it's a very Swedish, clean, efficient place, with lots of friendly Vikings. Plus it's got heaven's only branch of IKEA.

Also mentioned is Tír Nan Óg, a charming stone-clad Irish village with an enormous pub and bar scene, Nirvana, which looks quite like a very chilled-out Bangkok (if such a thing exists) and Paradise, a carbon copy of the Bahamas but without the banks.

There's also a big walled city called Purgatory, which, oddly in the only bit of segregation I've seen in heaven, is for Catholics only. You can't come in if you aren't Catholic, and you have to be extremely quiet outside.

*

I'm feeling a little less at a loss right now. Did you know there is counselling available in heaven? Death is a pretty major thing to happen to anyone, and people miss their families, lovers, or worry that they hadn't achieved as much as they could while alive.

And if you don't fancy counselling, there's always Alessandro's approach to your problems—robot sex. Now that's probably why he didn't end up in the Catholics-only city.

Monday game

Make the world a better place. [Flash required]

I've only played it once and the score just keeps going up and up. See, you can't even lose at computer games in heaven.

Lazy Sunday

It's hard to get motivated in heaven.

I have every single whim and fancy catered for here at the Elijah. I can order whatever—or whoever— I like from room service.

Every single night is a party fuelled by the most magically delicious beer and wine imaginable and fantastic music. Every single morning is bright, warm, and hangover-free.

Last week's brochure of flats and houses to rent and buy, which I picked up from Summerlands, is still lying on the coffee table, acquiring coffee rings and biscuit crumbs.

There is no disappointment, no bad luck here for me. I just know that I can call any of the numbers in the lettings brochure and a new pad will be instantly mine. No deposit, no reference, no nothing. Not even a bank account needed (if they existed here).

I want to move out into my own place, but because it's so easy, I just can't be arsed.

Perhaps human beings are designed to look for a challenge, to overcome some difficulties. There are no challenges here.

Or perhaps that is the challenge.

Oh dear, I'm so confused.

Version two

"Alessandro! You're awake!"

It was yesterday evening. He was sitting eating on the sofa, dropping crumbs into the carpet. Somehow the crumbs disappeared when they hit the floor.

"Yeah. I've made some toast. Do you want some jam?" A look of sudden confusion crossed his face. "What, why can I suddenly speak English?"

"Hahahha!!!" squealed Walter. "It must have been the girl!"

I beg your pardon?

"Remember when the angel told us she improved people when she well, she jumps their bones? Well, this must be one of the things she did!"

Alessandro spluttered toast everywhere, dropping his slice face down into the carpet. It sank without trace. Another one appeared on his plate.

"But... I've always been trying to learn English... and never managed to. This is... amazing."

It's pretty good news, Alessandro, I said. Now we can all talk.

"What else have you always wanted to do?" asked Walter.

"It sounds weird... but..."

What?

"I've always had dreams about flying. Do you think..."

Walter interrupted in his excitement. "Yes, try it! Try it! It can't hurt, I mean," he sounded slightly doubtful, "you're dead anyway, but you're in heaven, so what harm can it do!"

Alessandro bounced up and drew open the curtains. We followed him into the light.

Sitting on the rail, he extended his arms out, spoke under his breath in Italian and then suddenly pushed himself off with his feet.

He dived gracefully, swooped across the pool, and flew back up again.

"Go!" said Walter. "Fly! Fly!"

Alessandro's feet disappeared way above us, with a scream, gibbering Italian excitedly. We watched him soar into the blue. He waved his arms, high above. It was like a reverse skydive.

Five minutes later, he came back through the curtains with a mallard under each arm.

We feasted from the barbecue that night.

Isidore

Today, I had a visit from St Isidore, patron saint of the internet, and he's done some interesting stuff to my blog.

First, he set me up with this thing called BlogExplosion where lots of people come to visit your blog. He's somehow wangled it so that I've got lots of points on it.

Secondly, he's really enthusiastic about RSS feeds, so he's made sure there's one available on the site.

He's also interested in me experimenting with Flickr. I do have a digital camera here (or I can just order one from room service), so next time I go out I'll try and take some photos.

I asked him about communicating directly with the living and he said it was ok as long as I don't reply directly in the comments, so I can't do that.

Oh, and he said not to worry about anybody flaming me, I'm protected from all pain and sorrow in heaven and I won't be able to read any nasty comments.

It's useful having a semi-deity as your technical support consultant.

Anyway, hello to anybody coming in through BlogExplosion. I haven't been able to read very many blogs in it though, for some reason—I think many of them are US-based political right-wing rants and for some reason they get blurred out and replaced by pictures of kittens.

Visiting the bank

Lots to say about last week's trip to the city of Summerlands, but this was my trip to the bank...

After following the very complicated directions Terri had drawn out, I finally found the single branch of the Heaven and Summerlands Banking Corporation.

It was in a basement of a five-story bong shop in a back street. I had to clear buckets and foliage away from the door to get in.

I opened the rotting door, and there was a dim, bare room with powder blue walls and a floor of wood shavings.

In the centre of the room there was a desk. On top of the desk, a bearded man in his pyjamas was sleeping, with a copy of À la recherche de temps perdu bent on his chest.

Hi, I said. Is this the bank?

"Whuhh... oh yes, yes it is. Welcome to HSBC. What can I do for you?"

I'd like to open an account please. What do I need?

"An account? Errrr... you're new here, aren't you? When did you die?"

Two weeks ago, why?

"We don't really do accounts in heaven. I can get you money though. How much do you want?"

Wait... you're going to give me money?

"Well, it's a bit of a minority interest here, but yes, we do have it, for those that want it. Follow me."

He swung his pyjama legs over the table and beckoned me towards a side room. Opening the door, it turned out to be a toilet.

"Take what you want. You won't really need it, though."

Why... why is the money in a toilet?

"Well, you know how the love of money is the root of all evil? We hate money. We hate money so much we put it in the toilet and give it to whoever comes in and asks for it."

I'm not taking money from the toilet.

"Please yourself."

Don't you have like, a credit card, or something?

"Ah, credit cards? They're kept at the bottom of the septic tank in the cellar. You're welcome to fetch one."

No, I think I'll, err, pass.

"If want to get a mortgage I can change the table so you can colonically irrigate me."

Erm, well, no. Bye.

"Thought not. OK. Goodbye then."

The bank clerk washed his hands under the tap and padded back to the desk, where he promptly fell asleep again.

Well, honestly.

How Dave got here

Dave woke up on the floor of the bus again to a torrent of swearing.

The band was on the verge of splitting up—had been for about three years, and it was only money and a very nasty opiate habit by the lead guitarist that was sustaining the flow.

The last thing he needed was a sore throat, he thought, as the bassist kicked him in the balls and blew smoke in his face.

He quit the following day, after the drummer threw a three-day dead squirrel at him.

The lump was removed too late. A year of cycling round a wheel through hangovers, binges, vomit and cider prevented Dave from ever noticing it.

Dr Choudry, his family GP when he was five years old, met him on the other side of the gates.

Saying he could do what he liked now, he passed him a packet of Benson & Hedges and a copy of his obituary ("flawed genius", "bizarre legacy", "survived by his third wife, Helen, and son").

That was Dave's first ever cigarette.

Made for love

Feeling a bit more with it now. That must have been good wine last night as I had no hangover whatsoever. Pity there's no more in the pool.

Walter said Alessandro's door became unlocked yesterday evening. He was still in bed, murmuring "Macchine... erotice... bellissime... " His face was flushed and there was sweat and drool all over the pillow.

Tentatively, we pushed open the door. Alessandro was snoring roughly, the tip of his matted dark hair just visible under the duvet. Walter reached out to try to rouse him.

"He asked for a nice young girl to celebrate Italy winning the World Cup," said a voice behind us.

We turned, and there she was—naked to the waist down, wearing only Italy football shorts and high heels, her long, dark hair trembling back and forth as she filed her nails.

We looked at her for longer than was polite. We couldn't help it.

Who are you?, I finally stammered.

"My name's Charlotte. You're very pleased to meet me, I can see it," she giggled in a heavy Italian accent.

"She's ... she's .. wow," said Walter, as she turned to face us head on, arching her back and her chest towards us.

We couldn't move. She was movie-star beautiful.

"You are allowed to look, you know."

We did.

"Some call us robots, some call us angels, some call us wet dreams, but we're really sort of good succubi," she said, finally, tossing her hair out of her face.

I didn't know what a good succubi is, but it sounded very rude, I thought.

"I thought succubi were demonic," interrupted Walter.

What's a succubi? I asked Walter.

"They're from Dungeons & Dragons," Walter said sheepishly.

"Yes. Walter is right," said the girl. "Remember how all the demons and Satan are fallen angels? The succubi used to be us. Angels for sex. The bad succubi, they sleep with men and drain all of their power and energy and will and imagination. We, well. We improve them."

Improve them?

"You ever see that film A.I.? With the gigolo? I think we're a bit like that, but girls and better. Of course there are men angels too. But we can do anything. Become anyone. We can read all your quietest thoughts. All your fantasises and dreams. Even if they're impossible. I already know all of yours."

She threw the inflatable Jesus cartoon pool toy at my crotch. It bounced off surprisingly pleasantly. "Alessandro, he likes woman footballers. We had a whole team of eleven. Plus substitutes," she smiled. "So when he asked for 'a nice young girl to celebrate Italy winning the World Cup', we know what he really meant. Tired boy, he must sleep now."

Why didn't I hear anything, I asked?, as she stood up.

"You didn't want to. Eh, one final thing," said the angel as she climbed back into the hatch. "If you've still got those miracles-in-a-bag, I think you must use the Curing the Paralytic on Alessandro. He can't walk. And it's nearly the end of the Sabbath, so you must hurry.

The hatch closed. "Maybe we will see you two soon," she called as she disappeared down the dumb waiter.

That's the second time here I've been startled by a woman. It's got to stop.

I htink i;m sitll drunk

We picke udp box of 'miracles i na bag' in town and Walt er stole the onre of them that turns water oin to wine and he porued it in the pool

so we also usedt he feedingo f 5000 one and had a big barbeque , then i ithkn dave started owalkng on water( except it was wine, sohe fell in)

it was a good party

aLESSANDRO 's dorr its open but wehavn't been in yet

No hang over, stnrange

I'mgoing back to sleep nw.

Excursion

Dave and I are off on the early bus to Summerlands tomorrow. I want to visit the bank, run some errands and see if I can start my flat search. Plus, I want to get to know Dave better—all I know about him is his nicotine habit. He seems like an interesting old fart.

Walter will look after Alessandro, if he survives whatever's happening to him in that room.

If it's technically allowed (I'm not sure if I'm meant to communicate directly with the living) I'd like to thank all my commenters so far, you're lovely. A couple of points:

Misty wondered if I have seen any dogs. I think you might be talking about something like this?.

I haven't been looking for dogs, really, in the same way I haven't been looking for cows, or platypuses. I'm sure there must be dogs here. I must remember to make a concerted effort to look for dogs sometime next week.

Sue Darroch wrote a post about me, and wondered if she could get any photos of ghosts. Thanks Sue. I haven't seen any ghosts yet. I hope I don't see any...

See you on Friday night.

Bargains

Walter was delighted when I gave him Terri's feeding tube. So much so, he put it on eBay.

eBay took it down within twenty minutes.

Pity really. I think they must have done that because eBay users could have trouble getting items from heaven delivered.

*

Walter had the computer all day yesterday, and Dave was working his way through a box of rare cigars, so I spent the morning and the afternoon in the hotel pool.

It was body temperature and had no chlorine. Best of all, I had the pool to myself, all day.

Floating on my back, I watched the birds squawk far above, dipping and swirling around like crazy little biro squiggles.

Bliss.

*

It's been just over 36 hours since Alessandro's 'room service incident'. His door is still jammed shut. The noises are becoming less frequent, but they're still going on.

In the pool yesterday, I could see his curtains closed.

On a whim, I started throwing pool toys at the third-floor window to see if I could get a reaction. Most of them missed, but two, an inflatable cartoon Jesus face and a blow-up Krishna, hit the material with a wet 'blomp'.

A long, slender, naked tanned female arm extended slowly out of the middle of the curtains. Suddenly, a football materialised in the hand.

With an impossible underarm throw, the arm fired the ball towards the pool. The ball bounced off my head exactly accurately and landed in an empty sunlounger.

The arm then waved, gave the thumbs up sign, then withdrew swiftly, giggling salaciously.

I've a feeling Alessandro may have got more than he bargained for.

Orientation hut

Today, I went to the orientation hut, a log cabin covered in ivy just half a mile from my hotel across a meadow filled with buttercups. And that's where I saw my first celebrity in heaven (apart from, well, you know.)

Terri was working behind the front desk.

She must have seen my jaw drop when I walked in.

"It's okay," she said, in a bright American accent. "Hahaha. I guess you weren't expecting to see me."

I shook my head.

"How can I help you?"

Er..., I said.

"It's okay," she said again. "I've got all my faculties now. Ask me anything."

What are you doing here?, I stammered, unable to help smiling.

"All the angels have gone to a conference today. But I've been granted omniscience for twenty-four hours so I can answer any questions you need, of course."

No, I meant...

"Ohhh, of course. Well, I've been silent for fifteen years. I took this customer services job after I finally got here just because I wanted to talk to people. It's great.

"Anyhow, your question was going to be, you're in the Elijah hotel right now and you want to find a flat, where can you find an realtor, or an estate agent or whatever you Brits call it. And I'm here to tell you, Rowan, where do you think you can find a realtor in heaven?"

I see.

We talked for about twenty minutes. It's a bit unusual talking to somebody who knows exactly what you're about to say, but I can't blame her interrupting me all the time. Considering.

I tried to ask her about money. Terri added that she's never really needed money here, but most cities have a bank, if you want some money. The nearest one was in Summerlands. I'll have to visit later this week.

Before I left, she made me take a piece of her feeding tube as a souvenir. Walter will probably like to have it.

Incidentally, back in our suite, Alessandro's door been locked the entire day since the events of last night. Every twenty minutes there's a hoot and a thump and some Italian, but that's it. What's going on in there?

Room service

Hello. This is my first blog entry from the afterlife.

I'm currently sitting on the edge of my kingsize bed in the Elijah Hotel tapping this out on a 48Mbs wireless link.

Me and three of my new mates (Dave, who died of throat cancer, Alessandro, who also died in a motorcycle accident—spiralled down a cliff, silly fucker—and Walter, who fell backwards out of a window after drinking a bottle of tequila and broke his neck) have been competing to see who can get the most outlandish room service request fulfilled.

It all started off when I ordered, as you do, a bowl of yellow M&Ms. Why yellow M&Ms? Well, it seemed like the rockstar thing to do.

About five minutes later, I received through a hatch in the wall an immaculate crystal bowl filled to the brim of M&Ms of such a deep golden hue I thought I'd just stepped onto a Ryanair flight.

The chocolate is delicious. It's unlike anything I've ever tasted. It was everything I could not to smear it all over my mouth and teeth.

The M&Ms I hadn't greedily shovelled into my gob, I shared around with my mates, lodging with me in my palatial hotel suite. Walter, who frankly has proven himself to be a little bit odd in the past 24 hours I've been here, decided to try and put one over on me.

He went and ordered a bowl of ultraviolet M&Ms. I mean, I don't think I ever saw an ultraviolet M&M any time I was alive. Apart from when Jon gave me that 'mushroom' 'burger'.

It took ten minutes to arrive. An identical bowl, just as priceless as mine, slid through the hatch, filled with chocolates that were a dull indigo colour.

Walter took one in his mouth and gasped, blinking. We all dived in. Eating an ultraviolet M&M makes you actually see the eighth colour of the rainbow.

Dave was next. Through the small hole in his throat—he had a trachaeotomy two years ago, but his vocal cords and neck are beginning to heal here—he asked for a bowl of nicotine M&Ms.

After trying them, Walter and I decided to let Dave have the bowl to himself. But I tell you, if M&Ms came in nicotine flavour then the makers would become richer than Google and Coca-Cola.

Alessandro then grabbed the phone. We're not entirely sure what he ordered from room service. All we heard after the door slammed was a lot of high-pitched Italian voices that seemed to be complaining about the size of the hatch, shouts of 'Forzo Azzuri!' then women's football kit falling to the floor. I'll have a peek in later when Alessandro falls asleep, which won't be long.

By the way, I'm in the Elijah until I can find accommodation. It's going to be an interesting experience, looking for a flat here, a bit different to trying to beg Foxton's not to keep your deposit. But I'm looking forward to it.

Actually, that's a point. I need to ask one of the orientation angels where to get money. I'm still a bit disorientated.

It's been a bit of a frantic week since I arrived here — but more of that soon.