Hell. Its very name brings up images of fire and brimstone, suffering, pain, misery and a killer soundtrack. But, is this a misunderstanding? Project Brainstorm sent its top-down reporter Gerald Emptyweasel to investigate. His words are below (This Way Up).

We arrived at noon, the following night, and were immediately struck. New arrivals came by the truckload, or if air travel was not possible, by pirate boat. These boats were octagonal, because there are eight points to the galleon (one). While most were first-timers, I noticed a few returning souls, whose hands were stamped by a pack of buffalo and made available for inspection and changing. I spoke to one man who said he'd been back six times, and he'd be damned if it happened again (two).

Although partly owned by the National Trust, much of the Underworld is still the property of the founders. In recent years the overheads have been spiralling upwards, so people have to stoop less, though with rising underheads people have to crouch more to compensate. Those people that haven't made these adjustments find they have a lot more headroom, but less mobility because their legs are now stuck in the ground.

The accomodation was nicely situated within walking distance of the Chinese quarter. The rooms were all air conditioned, and room service brought anything from a cheese baguette to intricate dental torture to a cup of soup on demand. One of the residents, Roger Filbert, has been here indefinitely and still plays Jimi Hendrix and the clarinet. He spoke to me for what seems like an eternity (three), during a crotchet rest, and told me about the appeal of Hades and its soundtrack. He was quite sharp with me and I left a bit flat, locking myself out.

Finding your way around is easy. Each visitor is given a little demon that walks around with a sign that reads "You Are Here". Some may find being confronted with this horrible truth daunting, but in many ways it was reassuring. Problems do occur, of course. During the afternoon, my demon and another resident's got mixed, and for a while, I thought I was somewhere else. Thankfully, I managed to find my way back using the soundtrack to guide me.

Dinner was served in a room with one set of ten-foot chopsticks, which were now being used to spit-roast a hog, while people helped themselves to noodles with their hands, all mixed together. After the meal, some Limbo dancers (four) entertained us, but that was neither here nor there (five).

Of course, this Netherworld paradise is still a centre of torment and agony, but the locals accept it as part of the soundtrack. I spoke to one gentleman who was in the middle of a lengthy Iron Maiden. He told me that later he planned to make something that required a sieve, and then maybe water the garden. Another lady showed me how she had taught the hounds of Hell to roll over, sit, and beg to rip her limb from limb every morning.

At the centre of this fiery pit is eternal suffering co-ordinator, The Fallen Angel himself, Satan. We managed to secure a few words with him, though we had a devil of a time (six) doing so. "Well yes, one finds that as time goes on, one is not as able to maintain oneself the way it is expected of one, you see. But the thing is that it does get awfully hot sometimes, and now and again, all one would really like to do is put on a loose sarong and fix oneself a nice margarita." He then showed me a dance routine that he had been working on.

So, this writer is found wondering: really, when did Hell acquire such bad reputation? If you want to feel the same warm glow I felt, take my advice, and go to Hell.

Gerald Emptyweasel is a freelance, and is paid by the poorly constructed joke. His thoughts are unanimous. The soundtrack is out in August. Satan comes to the West End later this month.