There were only two things that tempted me away from the life of a monk – conventional sexual appetites and religion. Otherwise, a contemplative existence, withdrawn from the cruel and stupid world, while baking bread, brewing beer and doing a bit of gardening, would have suited me well. I know this, because I studied medieval literature, with a strong side-dish of monasticism, about which I learned much through my studies, some of which remains unspoken to this day. Now, there was far too much about God involved in all that, and no women, I grant you, but they still had their fun it seems. The communal bath was the highlight of their year. Unfortunately, such joy can lead to depravity when encountered on a sober journey, so a bit of frenzied, celebratory masturbation was sometimes thrown in, to the glory of God, with the proviso that one shouldn’t covet one’s neighbour’s ass. But let’s not muddy the waters here, or get into bad abbots. In fact, the abbot would often turn a blind eye to the practice. They say it does that to you, especially when you begin as a novice. For the other 364 days of the year it was a quiet, exemplary life, broken only by ecstatic self-flagellations in preparatory penance for the annual over-excited social ablutions. Anyway, that life sadly passed me by for the reasons already stated, and I find myself here in 21^st century Britain, being forced towards eternal damnation by a government led by megalomaniac fascists. It all makes no sense and I would retreat into my inner monk for escape, but I know deep down there is no God to help. I think I might just have a bath. That must be the way to handle this. Praise be to the Lord. And all the wankers out there.