Shrove Tuesday has been and gone. Fridges are short of egg, cupboards are bare of sugar, lemon rinds lie moulding, and a bottle of maple syrup lurks sticky-rimmed, waiting for next year. I’m sure we’re all rejoicing in our collective self flagellation.

You’re not? Well you should be; and it’s not just cocoa-based gluttony you should be worried about. According to Pope Gregory the Great, there are seven ways to pass directly into hell, or at least get an extended stay in purgatory.

The Seven Deadly Sins presumably provided a fun alternative to the seven cardinal virtues, but it wasn’t until Dante’s epic The Divine Comedy that they gained cultural, as well as religious, significance. This has persisted: the last decade saw the disturbing Seven and Razorlight’s, ahem, poetic allusions to the various circles of hell. A full history of the symbolism would give even Robert Langdon, so let Varsity’s guide be of warning. Coming across these characters is dangerous, so say “knickers” to your Snickers, or you too might be forced to eat rats, toads, lizards and snakes for eternity.

Envy

She’s here. She’s over there. She wishes that she was over there and she wishes that she was here, which she is, which is doubly annoying because it makes her feel stupid. It‘s obviously not for any particular reason. They’re watching her over there and her over there and wishing they were both here, because he’s over there where they are and they look like they’re having fun. They’re not having fun, which is why he’s secretly wishing he was over there with them, free of these two over here; they just seem to be annoyed that they’re not over in the other there; they don’t seem to like it here. She starts imagining a big fence and a little field, so does she, and then he does and then they all do. They criss cross and all the patches are green; greener than here anyway. Nobody likes it here. It’s a shame. We could all be having a good time. Tom Sharpe

Lust

Lust? Sure, I know Lust. Ex-member of the Seven Deadly Sins, the toughest gang of no-good criminals ever to sully the fair streets of Cambridge. I first tangled with them way back in 1308, just after I got my badge, and I have been chasing them ever since. Out of all the gang Lust was probably the dumbest - tough, sure, but he had real problems thinking straight. The others took advantage of him, and he ended up taking the rap for most of the stuff they did. I remember back in the nineteenth century when Anger, Greed, and Pride could walk the streets freely, but if Lust so much as flashed an ankle the law would be on him like a ton of bricks. But times are changing, and from what I’ve heard he’s cut a deal. Lust ain’t afraid to show himself these days. Sexual liberation is in, traditional Christian ethics are out. Casual sex is in, genitals are – well, never you mind. Cambridge nowadays is a hot, vibrating bed of desire, and I don’t see nobody complaining. Except for the Seven Deadly Sins, of course. They’ve lost their oldest member. Adam Kessler

Sloth

“Any wannabe wrongdoer can lust or greed all day, but true sloth requires that delicate balance of talent and total apathy. To be successfully slothful, you have to have ability matched in equal proportion with abject indolence. If you’re slumped in front of Hollyoaks with a hangover now, and are thinking, ‘yeah, I’ve got that’, think again. Any meathead can slouch in front of the TV. If you want to truly be wasting your time, you need to do something totally and utterly banal. All the time. And when someone uses their talents to achieve something, you have the moral high ground because you can smugly comment: ‘I could have done that, but I couldn’t be arsed.’ Sloths revel in their slothfulness, proud of the fact that all is possible because nothing is attempted. It is the one thing that the high flyers in this world can never have because you can’t work at it. You can’t work at all.” Henry Donati

Gluttony

Whatever happened to Gluttony? The poor sod went on the Atkins. His mother decided there was only one way to save him: Jeremy Kyle. For a while, he tried out the life of raw veg and a sensible wife called Prudence. But that didn’t suit .

Soon it was out with the oral consumption and in with the mental consumption. He began to wake before the sun had risen and rush to the river to slosh a stick through the water with great vigour; to consume large spoonfuls of Keatsian love-sickness, allowing it to flood his senses and take hold of his consciousness. He even started to savour the feelings evoked by needless procrastination in the early hours before a gruelling day of work. Less calories, but still the same dark consumption; the same sadistic pleasure; the same pleasure he loved to hate. Joe Rinalidi Johnson

Avarice

Avarice is a pretty sorted guy. He’s got a job lined up at Goldmans (£36kpa), though he might go with Lynch (£35kpa, but on the plus side they have a pool on the mezzanine).

Avarice once thought up a joke, and it’s rubbish. He was having a curry with his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day, and instead of asking her if she’d like him to pass the bowl of rice, he said “oi, love. ‘Ave a rice! Geddit?! Hee hee! The joke there, of course, being the similarity with my name!” After that very meal (£36.50), when he insisted yet again on splitting up the bill in exact proportion to what they’d each eaten (£24.30/£12.20), she split up with him.

The irony, he told his mates at the Law Ball (£70), was that he’d actually eaten £12.10 more than she had – so his bill-splitting meant she got the better deal even taking into account that she left a ridiculously generous tip (£3.50). Then he remembered that that wasn’t really ironic, and that his girlfriend had stopped loving him because he was, and would always be, a tight, greedy, selfish twat. But then he cheered up when he remembered how he had secretly pocketed the £3.50 tip when she couldn’t see because she was crying so much. Tom Kingsley

Wrath

Wrath gets angry. Wrath gets particularly angry when academics call him “Ira”, because he doesn’t speak Latin. He was by the bike sheds hotly noogying a classmate who stole his Wham Bar. When God invented the word, He decided that “Wrath” be spelt “Wrath” but pronounced “Wroth”, just to make Wrath more angry.

Chaucer called Wrath “the fervent blood of Man yquyked in his herte, thurgh which he wole harm to hym that he hateth”. In return, Wrath called Chaucer a “twatte”. The other sins agreed Wrath should chill out. Wrath’s demon is the really famous Satan, but Wrath identifies himself more with the Muppet Animal, as both play the drums with their head and have large eyebrows.

Wrath often hangs out in wedding dress boutiques, making the mirrors bend so that the bride will think she looks fat and hissily throw her shoe at someone. If she doesn’t notice, Wrath will scream “Faaat!” from behind the mirror. At such moments, Wrath often has to repeat himself, as he has an incongruously thick Icelandic accent. The awkward silences following his outbursts can be quite embarrassing and, appropriately, a little infuriating. Wrath also enjoys stirring up some anger in kebab shops and theatre dressing rooms. Wrath has had a long-standing beef with the actor Tim Roth. Tom Williams

Pride

I once met Pride in the pub. “Ah! I’ve heard of you” I said, holding out my hand. Pride nodded slightly and then, quickly outstripped my whisky and coke by ordering a particularly expensive bottle from the menu, before taking centre stage at the bar, unfolding her long legs the full length of the stool.

Conscious of the fact that I had met with so historical a personage, a renowned actress in so many novels, bred a nervousness in me which could only be quelled by the venturing of a compliment. “I do like your shoes,” I blurted. Had she heard me? “I do li. . .” “Yes.” She smiled. “I know.” Silence ensued. Pride was beginning to unnerve me, especially when, turning to trace her gaze, I found only the mirror; or perhaps she was looking towards the door? “Are you expecting …?” I began, when the slam of both doors reeling back on their hinges announced the entrance of an immaculately dressed man: “Priiiide darling!” How the devil are you? And - “Good God” he said, noticing me. “Who on Earth is this?” He held up his hand to stop me. “This is my younger brother, Arrogancé,” Pride lisped. He looked me up and down with the demeanour of hand-held vacuum cleaner: “Your shoes are horrible” he said. Laura Kilbride