Weekly Meeting

The Annual Award Ceremony for the Neil McCorkindale Essay Writing Competition took place at McDiarmid Park on Thursday 26^th April 2018. Essays were received from Perth Academy, Perth High School, Perth Grammar School, St Johns RC School and Morrisons Academy. The winning essay was adjudged to be “Hellish” submitted by Katie of Perth Academy. Katie was presented with the Silver Salver from club President David Lindsay. In recognition of the extremely high standard and quality of all the essays each contributor was awarded a £10 book token. 

This was the 16^th consecutive year in which the award has been made and the club wish to congratulate and thank all contributors (and their teachers) for upholding the very best tradition and highest standards of the competition”.

The winning essay below

Hellish

He tapped the bell on the desk, instantly recoiled and cried out in pain. The receptionist regarded him for a moment, rolled her eyes and pointed to the oven glove next to the bell.

“Yes?” she sighed.

“Hello, I’m here from The Insider and was hoping to get an interview with your boss.”

The receptionist flicked through her diary and lazily looked back at him.

“Have you made an appointment, sir?”

The journalist blinked the sweat from his eyes.

“Well… No, I didn’t realise I had to.”

The receptionist sighed again and fiddled with her desk fan. It slowly juddered to life pushing the uncomfortably hot air around. She turned her attention back to him.

“This is an important business and he is very busy. Unfortunately I can’t let you through unless you have an appointment or a bad deed to declare.” She turned her attention to some singed papers. The customer behind was a small man with wild eyes. The receptionist briefly glanced at the man and flicking through her papers said “All weapons in the weapons box please, sir.” the journalist turned to see the small man roll his eyes and remove an impressive number of knives from his pockets. The journalist looked back at the receptionist wide-eyed.

“Sir, if you take a seat then maybe we can help.”

The journalist sat in the waiting area where the office was in full view. There were magazines fanned out on a table with headlines such as, “So, you’ve died!” “The Latest Trends from the Depths of Hell!” and “Exclusive! Angels caught at a club in Limbo.” He glanced around the office at the small, demon-like creatures wearing stained ties clumsily tapping away on computers showing intricate spreadsheets. One knee-height creature with stubby horns and a short tail trudged to the photocopier where he stood watching the rhythmic clunking for a few minutes before sloping back to his desk where he proudly rearranged his dead pot-plant.

The journalist’s eyes wandered along the wall of the office where a dartboard hung with a well-punctured photograph of some white stairs leading up into clouds. Further along was a fire extinguisher with a sign above which read “In case of fire,” next to which was a matchbox with a sign above which read “In case of no fire.” Another deceased office plant with a familiar on a stool next to it staring into the abyss. The Journalist glanced over at the receptionist, who was lazily holding the weapons box while the small man placed an axe into it, and approached the familiar.

“Sorry to interrupt but I’m doing an article and was wondering if you could tell me about your job?”

The familiar sniffed indelicately and looked at the journalist with little interest. Maintaining eye contact, the creature reached over to the plant and with a pair of secateurs snipped off a single new shoot which had fought its way up out of the dust.

“Right…” the journalist retreated to his seat and made a mental note not to make eye contact with the workers.

Twenty minutes passed and the journalist decided to chance his luck and approached the desk. He put out his hand to tap the bell, decided against it and cleared his throat instead.

“I have a bad deed to declare.”

The receptionist continued to read her paperwork.

“Yes?”

“I once...” He looked around nervously

“Sir, this is completely confidential.”

He took a breath and lowered his voice so not to be heard over the din of the office.

“I once made a cup of tea…”

The receptionist gave an exasperated sigh.

“Sir!  If you have nothing to declare then I’m afraid I really can’t let you in.”

“… and put the milk in first,” he whispered.

A silence fell over the office. The receptionist’s mouth fell slightly open in horror. Somewhere in the office somebody dropped a mug which shattered on the ground.

“You monster…” the receptionist whispered.

He looked around at the horrified face of Death (who had just come out of a pleasantly productive meeting) slowly shaking his head.

“Go through please, he will be with you shortly,” said the receptionist briskly. He hung his head and shuffled past the front desk and into the elevator. He pressed the only button which read DOWN and descended deeper into Hell and his own shame.

The doors opened and he walked out into a nicely lit office with a large wooden desk and a luxurious leather chair behind it. The leather chair spun slowly around. The journalist gulped.

“Ah! Hello to you, please take a seat,” Satan said airily. He wore a loose pale red cotton shirt, loose brown trousers and, the journalist couldn’t be sure but he thought he saw sandals under the desk.

“Thanks.” The journalist was taken aback by the informality as he slid into the chair opposite the desk

“I understand you wanted to ask me a few questions about the company?”

“Yes, if it would be no trouble.”

Satan smiled.

“Of course.”

“Well I was just wondering,” the journalist shuffled in his seat and turned a page in his notepad, “if you mind being thought of as ‘Evil’ because of your running this place.” Satan looked at the journalist and sighed. He lifted his feet onto the desk. He was wearing sandals.

“You see, this is all just business…”

The journalist nodded and scribbled furiously in his book.

“It’s a business which somebody has to run and that person just happens to be me,” he stretched luxuriously and put his hands behind his head.

“Right and how do you justify some of the less pleasant actions that this job entails?”

Satan considered this question carefully before answering.

“The world works because there is balance. It’s all about the yin and yang, the flow of energy, you know? The balance has to continue into the afterlife sector otherwise things would fall apart see?”

“Yes, I completely understand…” he finished taking down the last few notes.

“As I saw upstairs, it’s a very busy place and you must have so much to do so how do you keep calm and on top of things?”

“Well, I have a skilled workforce in the offices so they help me keep on top of things.” The journalist nodded.

“I’m also vegan so that really helps keep my inner aura feeling balanced and calm.”

The journalist stopped writing.

“Satan is vegan?”

“Yeah, this isn’t real leather.” Satan said proudly gesturing to his desk chair

“Oh!” Satan exclaimed reaching into his desk drawer, “Can I interest you in some homemade almond butter?” he said holding out a jar with a hessian top.

“Oh, thanks…” the journalist took the jar and looked cautiously at the contents. The phone on the desk rang, making him start.

“Ah, excuse me,” said Satan taking his feet off the desk and straightening his cotton shirt.

“Hello? Ah, hello! How’s it going, any progress?... Right… oh I see… with the boiling oil?... Yes, I should say so…”the journalist listened dry- mouthed.

“Yes try the pokers and if not… yes, perfect thank you so much…Okay then, bye-bye now…Bye,” he replaced the receiver gently and looked back at the journalist who stumbled to his feet clumsily gathering his notebooks.

“Well, thank you…I think I’ve got everything… so I’ll just be… going.”he stammered backing towards the door.

“Thank you, man. I’ve had a lovely time. Oh! Don’t forget your almond butter.” Satan smiled.

The journalist quickly took the jar and tried the door. It wouldn’t budge. The journalist looked at Satan who was sat at his desk, fingers interlocked by his chin looking at him.

“The door… it’s…”

“Oh I know. You see, the thing about Hell is… Nobody leaves.”

Satan’s eyes had a slightly red hue. The journalist’s pulse quickened. Satan opened a black, faux leather binder on his desk and made a noise of disgust.

“Especially not you… Who puts the milk in first?”