a stand-up satanist by Chris Madoch

Sin? I’m a bit of a devil for it-
Fucking addicted, indelibly wicked.
Show me a sin and I’m in there swimming,
Up to my neck, what the bollocking heck.

Me- I’ve front crawled through
A life-time of cock-sucking
And that’s just for starters.
Main course and sweet
They always stained my martyred sheets.

You, yes you dear,
The out of place one in the blue twin set
And a goldish coloured cross on a chain-
I’d wager it was from The Pound Shop.
Of course it could be real gold
But these are the cheap seats madam-
Some of them are fucking free
Free to charities like The Salvation Army
And Help The Aged.
You do look credit crunched.
She’s had no lunch ladies and gentlemen.
She’s wasting away.
Give it a few days
And there’ll be one less cotton-top
Sponging off the fucking state.

Don’t you dare boo.
Who was it booing?
Retard!

This bleeding country’s going to ruin.
‘Course you wouldn’t know
‘Coz you can’t fucking read.
I work. And it’s hard. It is.
You might not call it work
But at least it pays for the rent boys.
And it’s my taxes sir
Puts spam and eggs on her plate.

Where do you live?
Notting Hill?
Notting Hill!
Notting fucking Hill!
Oh I get it-
Either you’re one of them cunts from Oasis
Or you were once all muck and braces
Turned New Labour.
You know what New Labour means
In old money don’t you-
Barefaced fucking liars!
Next time you adventure mindlessly into heckling
Pick on someone with your own low I.Q.

Where was I, oh yes,
Fellatio, knob gobbling.
Look at my face.
Go on.
Look at my face.
You can see that can’t you madam-
These lips have supped up a whole ocean of cum.
Pretty big.
Yes. Pretty big of me.
The Pacific ocean if you want to be specific.
It does wonders for the complexion
And I, lady luckless, am living evidence of it.
Voila!
The facial skin of a baby’s arse.

Don’t look so fucking shocked.
You’re no virgin you,
A quitter maybe,
A stickler for the missionary position
And a spitter definitely
But never a bloody Mary. Not you.

You naughty, naughty, wrinkly old bag.
I’ve got your number.
Still got a twinkle in the one working eye.
Still gagging for a shag
With a well hung waiter from Barbados-
Someone with a dick
Thick enough to touch
The both sides of your sagging bucket.

I know dear. Fuck me do I fucking know.
I used to be
A night shift shit sifter in geriatrics,
They used to get up to all sorts-
All manner of hot shenanigans
‘Till we finally got closed down.
Shameful it was. A blot on my CV.
Imagine an old people’s home
Full of somebody’s grans
Condemned for being a red light district.
The jam packed police vans.
It was all over the tabloids.
Lead story on local TV-
‘Nice Chelsea Hospital a vice den of iniquity.’
It’s haunted me ever since.
Sordid it was.
No word of a lie, it’s tarnished my record,
Fucked my copy-book.
Cunts.

Yes love. Look. I know life is harsh.
Sometimes life takes the painful piss
Even when your bladder’s empty,
If you get my drift.

You’ve known hardship,
I can see it.
Those missing front teeth tell me everything.
But, darling,
Some of us, sheep like you, were made to follow,
Whereas the likes of me-
Queer As Folk shirt-lifting gobshites
We were always born to fucking swallow.

I don’t wish to sound cruel
But you’ve obviously been a fool to yourself.
That aspect. That visage.
That unflattering shade of lipstick-
A blast of labial rose.
Now, I’m no plastic surgeon
But you are quintessentially the face of Christmas past.
Ah! Bless!
Best to leave the scalpel well alone-
Keep your money
Diminishing in Woolworth’s stock,
Shroud all your mirrors in purple damask.
Ask Santa for a dildo.

Bet you’re a Christian though?
YES!
My mum always said I could be psychic.
See, this is the hunting season for them,
In December you can spot a member
Of Christ’s flock a fucking mile off.
They wear uncomfortably broad smiles.
Fuck knows why
‘Coz it makes ’em all look bloody mental,
Rabid for repeat carols and meatless mince-pies.

When your bent son kindly bought you tickets
You thought you was going to a Panto
But the whole adventure has been cursed.
Isn’t that true?

She’s nodding, she’s nodding in agreement
Ladies and gentlemen;
She is agreeing with me, not just nodding off.

And look, sweetheart,
You don’t mind me calling you sweetheart,
‘Course you don’t,
[‘love’s’ not very PC now
But somehow you are ‘sweetheart’ to me]
Tonight’s turned out to be
Your very worst nightmare,
It has hasn’t it,
Because me ‘me lucky duck’ I am, in fact,
Not only a fat and out and proud poof,
A sausage-jockey, a wanker and an orgiast,
I am also a stand-up Satanist.

And now, for the rest of you poor sods here
Who braved the snow
To suffer my show, is the irrefutable proof.

Bear with me.
I struck lucky this year.
Yes. For once.
Stumbled upon a closing down sale in
A Christian paraphernalia shop-
Turns out the owner
Had converted to being a Muslim.
The twat!
How fucking fickle is that-
It’s supposed to be a faith not a fashion option.
Fuck him-
Why should I care what the cunt swears by
Or wears to pull pussy.

Got myself a very cheap job lot of
Small crucifixes.
I’ve got a rather good eye-
Gay..queer interiors..sensitive D.I.Y.

This year my Christmas tree is very swish-
Well, you know me,
It’s got a certain bitter twist to it.
Selfish I know, but shit, how could I possibly resist.

I mass dipped the crucified messiahs
In pink
Swift drying enamel.

Result.
The lot of them look a treat
On my all black six foot imitation tree.
Well, I just love the irony,
And it’s blindingly gay, fabulosa,
You wanna know why?
All them tiny white lights twinkling in a night sky
Of shredded bin liners
They look just like the candles in the windows
Of the suburbs around Golgotha.

Keep up Mrs, show a bit of effort,
It might be a trifle scholarly but
It’s supposed to be the most famous story ever told.

Anyway, lately
I’ve really entered into the spirit of things,
Decked my hall
With gilded crowns of thorns
Adorned with powder pink pound balls,
Bought a belt with a mistletoe buckle,
Mmm,
A dozen mulled wine flavour condoms,
Aha,
Festive polythene
To line my bedroom walls.
Well I do hate to have to redecorate
After a New Year’s Eve gang bang.
Yes- you sad majority of straights,
That’s how we queers like to celebrate-
Shooting our load on the stroke of midnight.

Dear God!
That’s my place in heaven proper fucked.
But..should the awful reaper call
I’ve prepared a cunning plan.
I’ll pay him off with plastic-
How hard can it be with a platinum credit card.

Bloody tight-arsed fundamentalists.
You make me up-the-bum sick.
Go on
Hit me with your holy text rhythm method sticks.
Hurl stones at me, go on.
You can see that I’m a fallen girl.
I’m just a wayward lass,
A misguided floozy
Whose morals are as loose as your bowels madam.

It was you let one go.
I can smell the aroma of digested Senna pods.
God help me.

No, seriously,
How fucking hard can it be with a credit card?
I’d stake my life
They’ve got chip and pin at them pearly gates.
One swipe, four digits and you’re in.
Mm- sounds exciting.
And, since I’m riveted to the sodding subject,
Where the hell in the buggering bible does it say
That it’s impossible to pay for sin on tick.

Oooh! Ripples of applause from capitalist heaven!
You’re too kind. No really.
Either that or pissed as farts.
You’re not standing though.
I noticed.
I won’t let it break my heart.
I’m very understanding.
I can see that at least half of you are cripples.

Ladies and gentlemen you’ve been a wonderful audience,
Wonderful with the caveat of being empty headed.

Have a truly cool Yule-
Yeah baby!

Well you will won’t you
‘Coz you won’t be able to afford the fucking fuel!

May your turkey legs be salmonella free.
May your loved one give you one.
May your butt plugs come with a live battery.

Thank you.
Thank you.
I’ve been Chris Madoch-
You’ve been fun- lots of shocked festive toss pots.
Goodnight!




Chris Madoch © 2008