It was long past time. One night, Adrian,

It was long past time. One night, Adrian, Gareth and their flatmates turned off the telly and the internet, and joined the magickal battle for Britain. King Alfred's shade raised

Hell but it was a kind of British Hell. Y'know, the kind, right? Sort of crammed and crumby, every thing's a little damp and depressing. British Hell really bites the fat red one

. Hell is British because it's very easy to commit infractions in Britain. There's all the table manners and there's the queuing and then other general undefined, unspoken manners

British Hell is unique. American Hell, three years after this tale was started, is painful to see. Americans lack table manners and tend to be docile and uninformed, as intended.

Australian Hell, on the other hand, is a party. They are already used to everything around them trying to kill them. Hell is just a warm bath before another night of drinking and

it's usually on the way to the servo to snag another pack of durries anyway. I turned to Steve-o, "Beer me mate". Steve-o grabbed a coldie from the ice filled tub in the back yard

and hollered to Stella, who was busy arranging the wattles in a nice aboriginal vase. "Keep yer Marmite in, Steve-o," she hollered back as a passing dingo ate her baby. "Uru," said

Steve, for it was the dingo's nickname. Stella rolled her eyes at Steve, who was about as helpful as a horse in back of a carriage. T'was not the last time she would kiss her grits

our cookies out the window and ride off into the sunset together!" And so, Steve and Stella flew off the cliff into the Pacific Ocean, never to be heard from again. The end.