As above so below but more so
There's far more than red wine and naughty salt and pornographic print-outs spilt over the floor. Kylie is a wax candle, tactile curves and bumps; Christina's a spent wick: a flat fizz, a dodgy rocket. Tara and Tamara tear ligaments on the dancefloor, my loves, with dense, dead glee, burn bank notes and inhale. There's Holly Valance in her gorgeous, golden skin writhing on the mucky floor, white teeth beaming sexless, secular radiance as our pulses race. The whole of Hell crowds and it's all rather a splendid do and everyone's having a lovely time. The spirit of John Paul II has lead weights attached and sinks below the spit and semen consecrated tiles, and the night has only just begun. What next? Carol Vorderman dives like a grave hawk and pins Linda Barker to the floor then pulls up her skirt and rips off Linda's knickers with her beak. Cliff Richard is scuttling across the room, collides with Carol and Linda's predatory lip-lock, his face sticks to the floor as his forehead pusses Botox. A long queue forms to have a go on Jordan: in turn they climb onto her shoulders, hold onto her ears, and bounce around the room. Beneath the mirror ball, Blue kiss each other's hair. In another corner, Paul McCartney sticks pins in Jane Asher, and his lovely wife counts money in her head and flashes her flat lizard eyes. Vanessa Feltz jiggles her tits in a strobe and then collapses, which is a merry event for the many glutinous and gorgeous spectators, among them Prince Harry, faculties mangled on ketamine, Macauly Culkin fondling his neck, hissing sweet nothings. Jodie Marsh drags Stephen Fry off to the Savoy for gang sex with five Premiership football players. Chris Moyles, Johnny Vegas and Lindsey Dawn-Mackenzie climb onto the PA, join arms and bellyflop into the throng, crushing Tess Daly, Vernon Kaye, Melanie Blatt, Ronan Keating, Billie Piper and Chris Evans. Donna Duckworth-Chad and Christine Hamilton shimmy in silver slits like sluts, while Neil drools like a dog, with his hand down his trousers. Sadie Frost is wildly forcing prescription pills into the mouth of a half-comatose Gary Lineker, who is vomiting Walkers crisps. Adam Rickitt gives Gary Barlow a peck on the thong. Zara Phillips sinks a polo stick into Ewan McGregor's skull. Eamon Holmes' puppy-fat cheeks begin to devour his own face. Graham Norton's seering whine eats him alive. Damien Hirst wrestles a large shark as it tries to chew off his legs. Donna Air circles like a beautiful, pale sting ray. Then things get wild. A blast, a fanfare, an explosion like semtex at a Valencian carnival rocks the room. Through the smoke, Pope John Paul II rides in from his Gulag, on a golden chariot, with angels of death. A choral display of rank and file demons aim their bows into the lighting rig, and fire a thick frost of arrows into the crowd. Jennifer Ellison, Anna Friel, Ant and Dec, Iain Lee, Mark Lawson, Sophie Ellis-Bextor, Ben Elton, Gail Porter, Madonna and Guy Ritchie are among those to hit the floor. Confusion and cries of jubilation, the floor is awash with blood. Party of the season, people hoot. Rather! Then John Paul's angels of death strike. Patsy Kensit and Wendy James unsheath Samurai Swords. "Kill Bill, Kill Bill," Wendy shrieks, and Patsy plunges the blade into Bill Bryson's heart. Amanda Holden and Neil Morrisey fondle in a damp patch and Wendy smoothly decapitates them, runs across the roof, double backflips, and deftly disembowells Ulrika Johnson, Zoe Ball and Norman Cook. Brian Sewell clicks the safety catch off his vintage rifle and fires a bullet straight through Darren Day's dome and wallpaper paste spews out. He reloads and fires another bullet into the gut of Dr. Fox: vindaloo, Kingfisher lager and stomach acid sprays the room. Timmy Mallet goes at the throng with a giant iron mallet and the following brains puss into a pool of goo: those of David Baddeil, Salmon Rushdie, Uri Gellor and Sting. Vanilla Ice cranks a chainsaw, but before he can begin the massacre Davina McCall lands a talon in his chest like a vulture and rips out his heart and his body drops limply to the floor. Davina raises her catch to the dying skies, Zara Phillips, Rachel Stevens, Jade Jagger, Lady Victoria Hervey and Craig David release Banshee hollers and a fightback begins. Tobey Anstis and Dale Winton face Paris and Nicky Hilton in a cat-fight to the death but the boys can't defeat this killer wardrobe: their eyes melt, their loins calcify. Dave Dickinson points an Uzi into the centre of the room, screams "cheap as chips, f*****s!", and lets rip an orgy of bullets. C-list corpses and B-list bodies pile high: it's mass murder on the dancefloor. John Paul waves a machete made of gold as Mel Gibson rides in through the door on a glass-fibre cross. But under John Paul's cloak Satan is fondling a dagger in the uncorruptable's garters. John Paul loses his balance as Mel strikes a lethal strike with his lethal weapon. At just that moment Satan leaps at Mel's throat Gremlins
-style and bare teeth sink into coarse flesh. Last gasps escape the bodies of John Paul and Mel and a sudden, staggering silence descends on the room. I am left against a wall, aghast, grim fingers clutching pen and pad, feet sodden in a small sea of blue blood. Nadine Coyle cowers next to me, shocked to her Celtic roots. Then Satan walks up to us. His grin breaks and it's charming. It's Jude Law! "How are ya?" I get his autograph, then he vanishes, and I keep my pen. This is evil week.
I can hear Jamie Theakston passing by the window, whistling and on his way to church.