i

ISLE OF

RA L j• ••:•E YALTV.0101%11150

SLE OF

i U RA

SAM kIAL? KOICH wiagl

COMPETITION

By popular request

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2003 you were invited to supply a report by the late Jeff Bernard written from Another Place.

I think it was Byron, one of Jeff's heroes, who said, 'I'd rather be damned with Plato and my lord Bacon than go to Heaven with Paley and Malthus.' Jeff would have agreed, for he was, paradoxically, both sociallPpromiscuous and pernickety about his company. Chris Tingley has him saying, 'Frankly, I wonder about some of the types here. . . Secretly I never quite lost hope of a Heaven with Dietrich angels and free fags and taps pouring Smimoff. And what do I get? Harp rehearsals under Malcolm bloody Muggeridge!' None of us can be quite sure of his present address, as Tim Hopkins skilfully acknowledges: 'Rather less than whelmed up here (or is it down here?). I would have to say that, if there was any ground, laughs would be thin on it.'

Jeff's ghost was beside me as I judged. He relished good bad taste, and I'm sure he would raise a glass of 'nectar' to the winners, printed below, who get £25 apiece. The taker of the bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky (which I hope against hope is available Elsewhere) is John Young.

The Pearly Gates were a bit disappointing, more like the turnstiles at Sandown Park. I asked for the chief steward and was told that `Peter' was 'in a meeting'.

All the angels, or `greeters' as they are now called, had apparently been diverted to Diana duty. A nun of sorts offered me a glass of — brace yourselves — non-alcoholic nectar. My suggested preference for a large vodka received a look that matched anything my ex-wives were capable of.

A more kindly soul escorted me to the Elysian Fields, where the big race was between a dozen former Derby winners. I had a pony on Mil]

Reef, which obliged handsomely, so was sur- prised to find the bloke next to me equally excit- ed about Sea Bird's victory. It seems one of the rules here is that there are no losers. I wonder if Pm in the right place. (John Young) There must have been a mistake. I seem to find myself where people are supposed to go after a good and worthy life doing the things they were told to do — I expect they'll get it right in the end. The bureaucracy up here is even worse than the Middlesex. I thought my days of waiting end- lessly on a trolley in draughty corridors were over, but you should have been here when I arrived, left unattended for hours because they had a rush on with some VIPs coming all at once.

I don't think much of the rules here: no drink- ing, gambling or sex — maybe I'm being pun- ished after all. I'm already getting nostalgic about my council flat. At last now I can call this column 'High life' without any trouble from raki, it being easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle and all that. (A. Czaban) You could have knocked me down with an NHS crutch when I saw where I had arrived — clouds, White robes, the works. At first I thought it must be a balls-up in the admissions procedure and decided I'd better make the most of it while I could. But it didn't take long to exhaust the con- versational possibilities of Florence Nightingale and Albert Schweitzer and I started thinking this had all the rapture of Towcester on a wet Monday afternoon. That was when the penny dropped and I realised His Nibs had got it worked out all along. If you can imagine spending eternity wandering around something like a cross between a Cecil B. De Mille film set and Antarctica with central heating, with not a bottle or a fag in sight, then you'll have a pretty good idea of what everlasting torment is all about. (Christopher Bazalgette) Well, the other side at last. Found my leg at the check-in — apparently all limbs and removed body parts are returned to their owners. Must be great piles of appendices and tonsils, all carefully numbered and catalogued, awaiting repatriation.

My request for a smoking room was cheerfully granted, but I was warned that if I burnt my wings, they wouldn't be replaced; bloody typical. It seems you can spot the smokers by their yel- low-tinged wings — even up here, white wings think they're superior. The ambrosia is rubbish, like some kind of carrot juice with bubbles. I was told it produced a feeling of constant euphoria; I've had a better kick from sucking a Coach and Horses beer-mat. The place is full of do-gooders. Just because my leg's back it was assumed 11 would join the jogging club. Had to be rude

before refusal accepted. (Michael Kaufman) If I'd appreciated what things were going to be like, I'd have come off the dialysis earlier. Drink still poses a problem as firewater takes some swallowing, even when diluted with genuine bot- tled Lethe, but it's great to be in a smoking zone again. Everyone here puffs away nonstop and there is none of that depressing holier-than-thou attitude from those who have abandoned the weed. Nor is there any pseudo-scientific guff about passive smoking — not that I ever noticed complainers being particularly passive. The boss, when I asked about this permissiveness, made the thought-provoking statement that we choose our own path to Hell and stay on it when we arrive.

I leave the name-dropping to my erstwhile sparring partner, Taki, but you would be sur- prised to know who's here — or, I should say, you will be surprised, as this is where most of you will end up sooner or later. (Alanna Blake)