Compiled by Watson Goodman Free – not to be sold

J’arretais par une pasteur de la rue l’autre

Jour et, mon dieu, elle a dit le plus grand

Plein des conneries je n’entends jamais.

Alors, si vous n’aimons pas mon travail,

Trouver Sister Boston parce qu’elle est plus

Amusant que je n’espere jamais etre. Merci, diu.

Mad Monk III: Oh, woe is me. Is life really worth living? Not for me, I doth think. Why, why lord, do you have to be so mean? As if it’s not bad enough, you first take my parents at an early age and you now have to take my only friend. Whatever had Pete done to offend you master, or is it simply because I have offended you? You didn’t have to take it out on Pete, he’d never hurt anyone – well, apart from those little children. Take it out on me, God, come on, deal your best blow. The frame of mankind has always been like a dishwasher nozzle, spraying out cleaning fluid in the desperate attempt to cleanse, but so far it has failed. If the dinosaurs were blue, then how is it that a butterfly that flaps its wings in one continent forces a man to leap off a building in another? One of life’s little mysteries has become as clear as mud to me now, life is death and death is life, so what is the summit of life? Death, that’s what. That’s what we all end up as. "All God’s creatures die and go to live in paradise." Tripe, they all go and live in Hell because Satan is evil and thus he tortures mankind to everlasting pain. Now, where did I put those balloons?

Ah, here they are. Look at me, reduced to selling balloons outside monasteries in the vain attempt of earning money to pay off my debts to the government. Pathetic. I bet you this bloke doesn’t want a balloon.

Bloke 1 enters stage left, walks over to Mad Monk III who offers him a balloon.

Would you buy a balloon off a poor, mute beggar, kind sir, guvnor?

Bloke 1: Sorry amigo, I havva no lire on my person. Au revoir, hombre.

Mad M: See, what did I tell you. No-one wants balloons, not so soon after the war. What hope is there for me?

And we saw a little tree,

Which bore the names of all God’s creatures,

From the human to the flea.

While we were floating through the landscape,

Full of ghosts and gods and truths,

There was an ugly, greedy sergeant,

Who was speaking to some youths.

Yup yup yup, yup yup yup

Why are all the scratters scratting,

Why are all the scrubbers scrubbing and

Why doth all the women moan?

This sergeant, he thought he knew it all,

How to solve the Earth’s vast toil.

To rule his world in perfect torture,

Was his aim and final foil.

Now the world has found its good saviour,

A monk he is, some say mad.

But there is one thing we can all say,

At least he isn’t too bad.

Repeat Chorus.

Angel 1: Hello there, Mr Mad Monk III, sir. We are here to tell you how you can repent all your sins and reach prosperity quickly, drink to your hearts content and be as rich as a millionaire in seconds.

Mad M.: Tell me, oh apparition to my eyes.

Angel 1: Join the monastery. Bye.

Ronald: Hey, Mr. Geoff, is that a knocking on the door? Oi, stop your damn knocking, I’m trying to get some bleeding sleep. God almighty (sorry lord). Knock after goddamn knock, that’s all you get in this job. Once you’ve got drunk, there ain’t a lot to do but sleep and then some bender comes along and ruins me dream. It was a good ‘un too. Sharon Stone was just seducing me on the Runaway Train at Alton Towers – I tell you, drink ain’t a good thing for lust. It gets you the birds but when you’ve got ‘em in your room you can’t do nothing ‘cos you’re too damn drunk. Oi, stop your flaming knocking butt nugget. Oooo, I’ve got a god awful headache (Sorry lord).

Gets to gate and opens it to reveal Mad Monk, holding his balloons.

No, no balloons today matey.

What do you want? As if it’s bad enough, you wake me from my sleep and now you won’t get lost.

Mad M.: Please sir, I want to join the Monasteri.

Ronald: Why d’you wanna do a think like that?

Mad M.: Might be fun. Besides, my life has gone from bad to worse. My pet tiger, Pete, died and my balloon business has been lacking in trade lately.

Ronald: Well, it’s too soon after the war innit? Ah, you look pretty desperate so come on in. Maybe I can get some flippin’ sleep now.

Ronald: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh.

Sockit: Hmmm. Right, Mad Monk isn’t it?

Mad M.: Hello senor, how goes it hombre?

Sockit: Yes. Now then, you want to be a monk at this here monasteri then?

Mad M.: You betcha sweet life.

Sockit: OK. I’ll have to wrote out a form for you to see if you are viable for a place at the Monasteri di Bobbio Merchantshippio. Have you been visited by the almighty God, Benito Mussolini?

Mad M.: Nope, but a load of angels came down, sang a beautiful chorus and then told me to become a monk.

Sockit: Ah, that’s good enough. OK, I’ll get Father Steward to come and show you to your room. It’ll be dinner time in a couple of hours, you’re free to roam the grounds as long as you walk in the path of the lord.

Mad M.: Cheers, big ears.

When is it dinner time? I want my food.

I long for sausages and french fries,

Come on dear friend and open up the pot,

And fill my bowl full of your tasty stuff.

I’ve waited all day long to fill my tum

I really hope you’ve got enough.

Miss Tableofresultso: Grubs up boys!!!

A monasteri life for me.

I’m as happy as can be, (tee hee!)

Now it’s a monasteri life for me. (Yippee!)

Now I’ve got my grub, I’m content

I’m all full up and getting fat.

Now all I want is to go to the pub,

To swig a beer and chat.

Repeat chorus twice.

Mad M.: Please Miss, I want some more.

Miss: More? More? More? Yeah, OK, here you go. Don’t know how you can stomach this stuff, tastes like contaminated stable mud to me.

Mad M.: Oh, I haven’t eaten for years, I was a balloon seller.

Miss: Well that’s understandable, no need for balloons so soon after the war.

Mad M.: Oh my sweet Tableofresultso. You are so beautiful to me. You always give me seconds with a smile, making my digestive experiences so much more enjoyable. I need you, like a poet needs the pain, like a flower needs the rain. Oh, please love me because since we’ve met, my life has become so much more meaningful. You have given me a reason to live, not Mussolini, although it pains me to say so. I want to be with you always - we have so much in common, we get on so well and you say you love me, you say I am your best friend but I can’t help but think you don’t mean it in a romantic sense. You will be mine, I’m sure of it, but I just don’t know how to make you mine. There’s not a lot of need for sweet talk in the balloon selling business you see, except maybe "Please buy a balloon, it’ll match your eyes so beautifully." Oh, I digress. Your hair is the colour of roses and your scent is of the night. I love you, I love you, I lo-huh-hove you, that’s all I want to say - please be mine or I will have to leave the Monasteri and return to my humble life selling unwanted wares.

Miss: Oh monk-y you’ve the sweetest face,

Both: Ooooh baby, Ooooh baby

Miss: Let’s consummate our love right now,

Mad M.: My darling, come to me and let us make this night ours and ours only.

Miss: Even though I’ve only known you for a month, I feel I’ve known you for my whole life. Fate has brought us together – it’s a fact mam.

Angel 1: Mad Monk III, he has a bird.

Death: Oh hello there, Fred. Have you seen Friar Macdonald about?

Fred: Ah, yes. He’ll be in his room probably.

Death: Cheers.

Corsa: Eh, Mad Monk, me old bucko, heard you pulled.

Mad M.: Ay, the lovely Miss Tableofresultso. She’s a right ‘un, I can tell you.

Laguna: Ah, we don’t want to hear about that though, this is a family play.

Mad M.: Right you are, Friar Laguna, right you are. Oi, Nova, why you looking like that at me, senor?

Nova: I thought you loved me.

Mad M.: Right, OK. (Pause) So the earth is round, is it then Friar Corsa?

Corsa: You betcha life it is. Round as a balloon it is. Spherical in fact.

Mad M.: Oh, don’t talk to me about balloons. Before I came here I sold…

Nova: Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard all about your goddamn balloons before and to be quite honest, they were boring then and they’re still boring now. So just shut up about them.

Mad M.: Sure – sorry, loverboy.

Nova: Don’t call me loverboy, leading me on like that. I ain’t eating with you.

Corsa: There she is, lads and what a fine pair of legs she’s got.

Mad M.: You eyeing up my lady? Am I gonna have to kick you in?

Corsa: Yeah, go on, I dare you. Fighting for the woman you love, how romantic, makes me feel kinda warm inside.

Corsa: In the dead of the night, I will come in your room and chop off your fat head.

Now that you have pulled the biggest nun here, you think that you’re so great.

But I will make sure that you do not live, that you will be dead,

You think that you’re tough, but I know I am, so come and fight me, mate.

Mad M.: Come on then hard man, give me your best but I will soon beat you,

You stand there so proud, unaware of my strength, you’ll never win.

I have my woman, right by my side, and now you have who?

This room’s on my side, you will fall quick, I’ll chop off your shin.

I need that chimney sweep, love.

Otherwise I will creep, love,

In the pits of hell for being a loser,

Killed by a monk – ba dap ba doo.

Repeat all of that again.

Corsa: I see you and I want to cut you up.

I loved your bird more than you will ever do.

Why oh why does life have to be this way,

Why oh why does love have to betray… the soul.

Repeat chorus.

Mad M.: Why oh why did I have to kill you, my best friend?

Laguna: ‘Cos he was scanning your woman.

Mad M.: Oh yeah. Shut up you, this is supposed to show my humane side. In this world of strangers, you were the only one who was a good friend to me.

Nova: (From rear) What about me?

Mad M.: Apart from Nova.

Laguna: And me.

Mad M.: Shut up! All of you, leave us alone please. Go away, go away.

We’re in the coridors of the monasteri. Enter hooded figure again.

Death: Eh lads, has anyone seen Friar Corsa?

Fred: Oh, he’s with Mad Monk.

Death: O.K., cheers. See you soon.

Fred: Let’s hope not.

Death: Ha ha ha ha. How little you know, naïve ones.

Mad M.: Fa la la la fa la la la. What is this? Is this a dagger I see before me, it’s blade pointing down? Oh no, it’s only a crucifix. Phew, for a moment then I thought I was gonna kill the bishop, inexplicably take over the monasteri and then bring about my own ruin by getting very paranoid. That’s a relief. A horse, a horse, my bucket and mop set for a horse. Oh how this merry life pitter patters on in its usual vein, how I was I couldst be a kite, soaring above the mountains in Venezuela, feeding on innocent mountain shrew. Not feeding on my friends like a cannibal.

I’ve always lived my life like a family man,

I’ve always done the best I think I can.

So now why do I have to be,

An ant under the smallest tree,

A murderer, that’s all I am.

Friends come and go, it’s very well known,

But you shouldn’t be the one who makes them moan.

It seems that I am now,

More disgusting than Spanish chow,

So I will now go somewhere and groan.

Why must I be a cannibal, baby?

Why must I eat all my friends?

Why have I got no table manners?

I hope this platter of death soon ends.

Angel 2: G’Day you miserable dag. Cheer up, you grim wriggler.

Mad M.: Uh hello. Are these premonitions again?

Angel 2: Nah, don’t worry, I’m as real as a fridge full of lager, mate. In case you were wondering, I’m here to cheer you up a bit, mate. You’ve been a bit down lately, ‘ere, have a beer, mate.

Mad M.: Cheap lager isn’t going to help me get over the predicament I’m in. I need Benito to tell me that I’m forgiven, I need the love of a good woman and I need a clear conscience.

Angel 2: You’ve already got a good woman’s love and you’ll have a clear conscience when you drink this can, mate. Besides, Mussolini does forgive you, why do you think I’m here, pillock mate. Stop your moanin’ and groanin’ and have a good swig of the golden nectar, mate.

Mad M.: (He does) Yuck, (hick) got any wine, senorita of the bush.

Miss: God almighty, Mad, what were you thinking of. Have you truly lost your mind once and for all? Corsa was your best friend.

Mad M.: You think I don’t know that? You think all this time he was my worst enemy? Do you think I’m bloody stupid or something? For crying out loud, I saw him treating you like a piece of meat and I just flipped, I had to do something about it or everyone would have been looking at you like him.

Miss: That’s all very noble, but did you have to kill him?

Mad M.: Yes! If I hadn’t, someone would have eventually anyway.

Miss: That’s not a very good argument, sugar pie.

Mad M.: But Val, I love you and I want to be with you always. With other monks eyeing you up, how can I compete with their boyish good looks and ambidextrous diligence? You would leave me for sure. I had to stab him with the chimney sweep, love.

Miss: Ah, Mad, you’re so sweet, I forgive you. Here come and get a good woman’s lve before we both burn in hell.

Mad M.: In the midnight lagoon I swim around so free,

I look at all the flowers and wonder if they’re looking at me.

They are so dry and bare, they haven’t drank for weeks,

But you, you can help them – you have what they seek.

Miss: Oh, I couldn’t save them from dehydration,

Without your help, my sweet sensation.

You have the water to keep them thirst free,

I’m glad you can do similar things to save me.

Both: If I was your water hose would you squirt me at the flowers?

Our love has great stamina, we could go on for hours and hours.

We are such a great thing, I hope we never die,

So use your hose and save me and never say goodbye.

Just say "hi," never "bye," never sigh, just say "my oh my oh my….." – we’ll never die.

Miss: Flowers are beautiful when they ain’t dyin’ (Ain’t mistakin’ fat mamma)

Death just isn’t pretty, to you I ain’t lyin’.

When I’m around you, I can’t help but squirt,

To save the flowers from the selfish dirt.

Repeat chorus twice.

Death: We got a problem, boss. There’s a certain monk up in Luxembourg who has stolen the chosen one from right under your nose. It’s a radical suggestion, I know, but I reckon he’s gonna marry her. (Satan looks vexed) I, I, I don’t know how it happened boss, but I reckon she likes him too, err, boss.

Satan: Bugger. Hmm, what shall we do now then? Well, we could kill him I suppose. That might plunge her into a fit of depression and maybe she’ll turn to me as her master.

Death: Yeah, you never know – stranger things have happened.

Mad M.: Friends, people, french fries, come to my banquet of the Soiled Grip and taste the spoils of the Franco-Sieden War. The law will take itself into its own hands and free Petre Gringo from hos honourable captive. Oh, oh, oh everything is falling around about me. We had a happy wedding day, a lovely service but now it seems that my marriage is ruined. I know she’s having an affair with Nova, that treacherous snake. She will pay, the sun comes out in the day, she will pay, hey hey hey. Mars will give us the secret to the formula to produce all the Cheerios we will ever need and then we will live ever tremulous.

Miss: Hi, honeybun.

Mad M.: Salutations, my lovely wife. Where have you been, sweetie-pie?

Miss: Err, I’ve been cooking the dinner, like I have to do every morning for you damn monks (pardon me French).

Mad M.: Yeah, right. So, have you seen my good friend Nova about? I’m supposed to dig a weed for him, but I don’t know which one. There’s so many in his allotment - I’m such a better gardener than him.

Miss: Yes, love, course you are. He was hanging about the kitchens with me, looking for some chocolate.

Mad M.: Oh is that what you call it now?

Miss: Erm, yes, why - what do you call it?

Mad M.: I don’t think about things like that. Leprechaun on Hadrian’s wall, dandelion on Plato’s ball, I sense terror in John Paul’s call, let’s all go and murder Saul.

Miss: I’m off, you’re losing it man.

Mad M.: Go on then, leave me. I always knew you never cared for me, you heartless cauliflower cress making, gravy boat pouring, chicken roasting cook. Oh, what have I done, what have I done? Now I must don the wigs of the Three Lights of Grandingsippo. To the vestal chamber I must go.

Mad M.: My wife’s gunna leave me, ho ho ho

I’ll don the wigs of Gradingsippo,

I’ll pretend to be a hippo,

And join a battleship crew.

I’ll put the wig on now,

It hurts my head – ow, ow.

She won’t cook any more chow

‘Cause she’ll die, that cheating cow…

Oh sweet Benito, this really is the end,

There’s always one more wife a little further round the bend.

Mad M.: My life is turning topsy-turvy right in front of my eyes. It’s like the story of the chaffinch and the magpie. The chaffinch has run out of bread for the winter, you see, and he knows that the magpie always has some spare so he went to visit the magpie and said, "Eee amigo, kann Ich habe ein stuck brot, bitte?" But the magpie was a selfish bird so consequently and with good reason, the magpie denied the request. "I don’t think so, gringo. Why don’t you just go to the shops and buy some?" The chaffinch was disheartened by this unsociable behaviour but he took the magpie’s advice and bought a loaf of bread for himself. Thus he spent the winter healthy and nourished.

I remember, my mother used to tell me that story every night and said, "The moral of the story is don’t go asking magpies for food, dear. Go to the shops instead. It’ll be less soggy that way." She was a wise lady, my mother. Oh who’s that yonder looking at me?

Wheeler: Yo, home boy, how’s it hanging dude? (Stereotypes, I love ‘em)

Mad M.: Not too bad, I guess. Erm, who in Benito’s name are you?

Wheeler: Wheeler S. Dealer, at your service, man. I own this joint.

Mad M.: I thought Bobbio Merchantshippio was the monasteri owner.

Wheeler: Yeah, well he was, once, but that was about thirty years ago. He’s dead now and I bought the monasteri off him. I kept the name though, cause I liked it – Monasteri di Bobbio Merchantshippio, got a nice ring about it. I once bought the Monasteri di Crudfinger Grafton, out in Jacksonville, but I didn’t like the name so I changed it. It’s now the Monasteri di Flowery Sugarlily.

Mad M.: That is a much nicer name. I have a relative who went there.

Wheeler: Oh yeah? That’s a coincidence.

Mad M.: I think life is one long coincidence. I remember once travelling to Austria, by horse and wagon, you know, and I knew that some friends of mine were returning from where I was going and it just so happened that we saw each other in Liechtenstein. When I arrived there, I also chanced upon my long lost brother, living in the same place.

Wheeler: Cor, that’s spaced out, man. Anyway, I’ve just arrived here and I was wondering what the chicks are like in this here monasteri. I saw this real foxy one, cooking some liver.

Mad M.: Hey, that’s my wife, amigo, keep your eyes off her, you punk.

Wheeler: Chill out dude. Only commenting on my observations.

Mad M.: Well, we could do without your comments.

Wheeler: Yeah, whatever man. Got a good pair of legs though, sport.

Mad M.: I said, we could do without your comments. Do you want your head kicked in or something? I don’t like people looking at my wife.

Wheeler: O.K. man, sorry sorry. (Under breath) She’s as ugly as sin, anyway.

Mad M.: Right, that’s it, you die.

Oh God, I killed him. What am I going to do now? There’s only one thing I can do. I will have to roam the streets of Luxembourg. The wig has done me no good (So take it off), it hasn’t explained any of my questions so I must seek solace in the winding roads of my fair city. Goodbye, sweet monasteri, for now.

Satan: Oh, it’s a lovely day today. I’ve never felt so relaxed. I got Ben Folds on my radio and a cigar in hand. (Sings along to tape) Underground, underground, underground, weeee. Ah, my friend, what is the good news you have to tell me?

Death: Ah, yes, well. We had a little problem.

Satan: Problem?

Death: Yes, guvnor. Erm, the monk killed Wheeler.

Satan: Oh bugger. Damn. Well next time we will have to use brute force rather than extreme cunning. That Wheeler was a bit of a weed I suppose. This time, we’d better not fail. Send down Deathmerchant, my dear sir. I’d like to see the monk fight him. Ha ha ha.

Death: O.K. fair enough. I’ll go prepare his battleaxe for the massacre.

Satan: You do that – be careful not to cut yourself. I’ll just finish my cigar.

Mad M.: So here I am in the streets of Luxembourg, it’s such a fair town to happy home in. but yet there is a deep yearning in my heart for something new, something different. The faeries have taken my last watermelon and I have nothing but the seeds left to chew on. But nothing is as bad as the gnomes who refuse to surrender my creamy-white lightsocket which has undergone so many refurbishments in the past, it’s turning into a one man band.

Paper Boy 2: Hallo, squire, fancy purchasing a quality newspaper off a poor orphan boy, guv’nor. It’s a fair cop, you caught me red ‘anded an’ all. But I didn’t do it, I’m a red ‘erring y‘hear. Ooh, me plates o’ meat are givin’ me blisters red as a London bus I say, apples and pears, apples and pears.

Mad M.: Push off, I was in the middle of a soliloquy there.

Paper Boy 2: Sorry kind sir. I don’t get much of a part in this play and I get paid more money if I say somethin’. D’you want some more. Cor blimey guv’nor, dodgy deals ahoy, apples and pears, apples and pears.

Mad M.: Look, I just told you to push off, so will you just say some cockney slang and get lost please.

Paper Boy 2: Cor blimey guv’nor. A right bit of bovver an’ no mistake. Grab me trouble and strife and go down to Camden market and get me a bowl of jellied eels. Apples and pears, apples and pears. (My agent’s number is…)

Mad M.: Right, I can carry on with what I was saying before. Ah yes, the streets have lost so much of their awe and enchantment. Did I ever tell you about the time when me and the missus went for a walk in the town? Even the blood spilled by the victims of terrible muggings seemed colourful – now it’s just turned a murky brown. Oh what has happened to our love, my dear Val. We used to be such a loving couple. We used to run in the rain, play games of trench jumping (Patented 1995 by Robert Richards, historian) and walk people’s puppies for them because we felt the love we had could spill into the little dogs and make them happy. But I guess that’s all gone now, hasn’t it? You like Nova, that’s fair enough, but you don’t have to hide it from me. A relationship is supposed to be based on trust – I can’t even rely on you to tell me when you’re having an affair. Oh sweet senorita, sweet senorita. I can see the sun ride in the distance in our desert as the mariachi plays our tender song…

…I am lifted above this depression temporarily and then smashed upon the rocks below. I look up and see the vultures encircle me, calling to their cohorts, "Here coes lunch." But the fish in the ponds can play their piccolos (Agitation creeps in) and the herons their bass clarinets because I’m sick of it all. I don’t need to be pushed around…

…like a table that isn’t sat at anymore. The brand names will succumb to my gregorian chant and collapse in a fit of exhaustion as they bleed their final drop down into the catacombs of the Devil. There is but one thing left for me to trust in – just one entity I can place my trust in. Thank you Mussolini for giving purpose to my otherwise pointless life.

Mussolini: It’s a no problem, si?

Mad M.: Cor. My God, appeared to me like a bolt of lightening shot at me by one of his angels. Satan will not tempt me to join his side – sure I’ve killed a couple of people, but Mussolini will forgive me, he knows what it’s like to be put under such stress when you can’t live up to the standards that your friends set you. The handsome, oh so pretty Nova can have my wife. But not without a fight, I can tell you. God, I’m thirsty.

Deathmerchant: Here, have a drink, you little punk. A drink of your own blood. Ha ha.

Mad M.: Oh God, what the hell else can go wrong in my life? My wife’s left me, I’ve murdered one of my best friends and I’m always confused. Now this great big oaf has come down from God knows where with his massive axe gleaming, offering me a cup of blood. At least I’ve got a lot of lines.

Deathmerchant: Yeah, tough life in a Luxembourg tragedy, innit?

Mad M.: Oh my God, it looks like my life’s going to end,

Such a wasted life – I have no friend.

Me wife’s left me

Me wife’s left me

And I’m getting sick of saying it.

Sick, sick, sick out a brick.

Gross misconduct – yeee haa

Here’s Inspector Morse – neee naw

Call an ambulance, ‘cos I’m gonna die.

Why – why – why? I’m gonna die. Oh no.

What?

Deathmerchant: Oh my heart.

Aaaargh.

Aaaaaaargh.

God that hurts.

Save me, mother. Looks like me time has come.

Bang the trumpet, sound the drum.

Brought that attack to the heart room.

Guess Mad Monk’ll never get his doom.

Bye.

Mad M.: Cor, there’s a bit of good luck, amigos. You’d have never thought he would have had a heart attack, just as he ws about to detach my head. Luck must be on my side. I can hear the lord of my life calling me and he screams my name like a red balloon. Did I ever tell you I was once a balloon seller? Sales not so good so soon after the war. Anyway, this scene’s gone on for far too long. I’m off back to the monasteri.

Satan: This is really getting on my wick now. You’ll have to go down yourself. I’d come down too, but since I’m not going to appear in every production, it’d be a bit pointless if the showdown scene had to be omitted. I’m evil, but not that evil.

Death: Fair enough. I’ll give him a good hiding, don’t you worry sir.

Minion 15: Hello

Satan: What do you want?

Minion 15: A raise. We’ve had a little vote on it and we all feel that we aren’t getting paid enough.

Satan: Oh well, I’ll see what I can do.

Minion 15: We want action now. We want a raise – what can you do?

Satan: Nothing.

Minion 15: Fair enough. Thanks for listening, oh dark one.

Satan: No problem…

….. dick.

It’s good to be in control. So many managers come up to me asking how they can improve their output and I tell them to start at the bottom. Show the workers who is boss. They ask for a raise? You tell them where to stick their raise. Bye.

Sockit: I was once the chief Friar at this place and now look what’s happened to me. Someone kills the gateman and I get the damn job. Ten years I devoted to this place, ten years. Praising Mussolini and how am I awarded? I get to stand out here in the cold all night with nothing but a bottle of vodka for company. What a wretch of a man I have been reduced to.

Knocking knocking knocking. Will the devil never stop sending me on such pointless errands? I tell you – and this is the stone cold truth – I was walking into a betting shop the other day and the whole room was jam packed, not enough room to fart in there, there wasn’t. Anyway, I digress, I walked up to the bookie and asked him, y’know, a tenner on Nice Whiskas Matey Is That All You Got For A Dollar and he told me that the odds were 20-1. "Well," I said, "In that case, raise it to twenty quid." He said – he was a weird bloke, this bookie, he kind of spoke with a Swedish accent, he said, "Vot? Twenty pounds from a monk on a horse?" I said, "No, I walked here, there aren’t even any stables at the monasteri."

Alright, alright. I’m a coming. Blinking hell. The apples keep shouting my name but I refuse to answer. On principle, you see. I don’t see why I have to keep telling them to shut up. They’re only doing it to annoy me. And the oranges – God, they never shut up. Moan moan moan moan moan, that’s all I get from them. Whinge about this, whinge about that. But the bananas, quiet as mice. Never hear a peep out of them. Although, that depends on whether the apricots are about. They have an evil streak in them, twisting the bananas around their little fingers.

O.K. Here I come. I’m just opening the door, no need to keep on with your incessant knocking. Shut up apples, please!

Mad M.: Well it took you long enough.

Sockit: Oh, I’m sorry sir. Please don’t take out your frustrations on a poor old gatekeeper.

Mad M.: Just get out the way and let me through.

Sockit: Fair enough, squire.

I can see something bad happening to him, he seems all full of rage,

I can predict all these things accurately, because I’m an old sage.

Miss: Oh what is up with poor Monky? He has been acting very strangely lately. It’s like he’s being very suspicious about me. I don’t know what he thinks I’ve done, all I do is wash up after a load of old monks. Not very exciting, I know, but at least I make an honest living for an honest man. I am very honest indeed. Honesty is the best policy, that’s what I say. Too many cooks spoil the broth. Too many hands make light work. Two’s company, three’s a crowd. One, two, buckle my shoe, three, four, knock on the door. This sounds like him now – it seems like ages since I last saw him. I hope he’s cheered up a bit.

Hi honey, you’re home.

Mad M.: Don’t give me any of that. I’m sick of your lies, sick of your deceit. All along I gave you everything you wanted – the honey from the bees, the cherries from the trees – and what thanks do I get? You run off with one of my closest friends.

Miss: No I haven’t. Who anyway?

Mad M.: See, lies lies lies. You know quite well who. Nova was always a dirty, selfish old man. I knew it wouldn’t be long before he tried to get his hooks into you. But I never thought you would succumb to his come-ons. The reindeer from Lapland have always been unfaithful to me but this is the last bedouin. I’ve wandered the desert of souls for more than a week now and I can only find one way out. The greatest yeti on earth has provided me with the solitary bagel that will solve all my problems with just one majestic blow. The seagull may know the way across the oceans but I won’t search around the graveyards of Finland for all my life. Roger roger. Bravo foxtrot tango. Ha, you know that I have watched you from afar. You know that the albatross around my neck has bitten off more than the giant peach and by God is he full now. I can barely pick my stomach up from off the ground. But the merriness of election campaign success is floating through the airwaves as we speak and now that I have been given the yeti’s reply, I can dance safely to the lambada without risk of the grey haired chip frier coming to fry my head, battered in a layer of blood red skin.

Miss: What is the answer?

Mad M.: It is time for you to die.

Miss: You’ve lost it. Here, snap out of it before the devil finally steals your mind.

Mad M.: Get away from me you cheap nasty trollop

When you served us food you gave me an extra dollop

But now I’ve had enough

This may sound a bit rough

But I’m going to have to kill you.

You, you, you – hoo hoo hoo

Miss: I don’t know from where you get these crazy thoughts,

But I’m not attracted to any of your monk cohorts

I’m an honest young lady

Although my memory’s a bit jady

I swear I haven’t slept with your friend

Friend, friend, friend.

Both: I know we haven’t really been best of chums,

I know we’ve seen some doldrums,

I know we may be breaking up,

I know we may be taking up..… too much in our lives

Miss: But I don’t want to die.

Mad M.: Well no-one wants to die my dear

No-one here at least, I fear.

Mussolini has told me that I

Must enable you to die,

It’s time for you to die, my little one.

The summer has always fringed on my heart

But the winter has, oh so often, torn me apart

When we met I was happy

They had to buy me a nappy

‘Cause I couldn’t hope to control my bowels.

Now you have gone and left me all alone,

I’m not going to be the one who has to moan

My life has had so much pain

You could fit in a train

Please send it far away to Alice Springs.

So I’ve got my knife to kill you, my love.

I’ll transport you to the angels above.

Please don’t cry too loud,

We have a nervous crowd

And Bethlehem’s a fair distance away.

Death: Satan has already sent down two men

To take your life quickly but then

You beat them both and he is mad,

He sent me down – I’m a nasty lad

And I’m gonna rip your goddamn lungs out.

Mad M.: So you too want to join in the fun

And murder like Atilla the Hun.

The pipes, the pipes are blowing,

A corpse will need a towing,

Never will that body be mine.

Death: Don’t be so cocky you plucky boy,

Even a monk couldn’t save the city of Troy

And what a muddle they were in -

Ten times bigger than the one you’re in.

How you gonna get out of this one then?

Mad M.: Maybe I’ll win you never know,

After all, you seem an easy foe.

Danger is my middle name,

Miracles my only game.

Only I will achieve glorious fame,

Negative vibes – I put ‘em to shame.

Know that I will be your killer.

Death: It takes a heartless man to enter London’s society these days, but a heartless man will never be a rag and bone man.

Mad M.: Ah, but I’ve seen his nature and he smiles at me like a politician does to win a useless vote.

Death: A married man may be able to live with a woman, but a marred woman will never live in happiness again.

Mad M.: Yes, but the happy man will always have a grin, but a chappy man will often have sore lips.

Death: Most musicians are frightfully igly, but a lot of magicians are small Lancashire gimps.

Mad M.: The beggar will always need to ask for money yet the pegger will always be able to dry his clothes.

Death: This society plunders the world for robbers and thieves but cobbers and leaves get let off.

Mad M.: Me thinks you look too kindly on him because his lisp is like that of a netted seal.

Death: Ah, the charted land may be free to roam safely, but the cheated hand will always choose trumps.

Mad M.: Da da dee doo dah

Blan blan dee dee doo

Skidip dee doo dah

Shplan foo nee noo

Well I left my baby in Luxembourg

The angel in a devil dress

Well I miss her sweet caress

Oh I, oh I left my baby.

I loved her more than flowers can sing

That beauty with her hair a mess

Aphrodite had looks that were less

Oh I, oh I loved her a lot.

Miss: I’m still here, you know.

Death: So am I, dee doo dai

Dee doo how how how

Sun like a great big cow

Blee dee doo da skin diddle do dah

Well that’s all in the past you stupid monk,

You may think that you’re very tough

But are you sure that it’s enough?

Oh that, oh that’s all long gone.

I left my skin in San Francisco

And I left my brain in New Orleans.

My lungs may still be in Moscow

But there’s still bone ‘neath these jeans.

So now it’s time to die my little one,

I haven’t known you well, but it’s been fun.

My chiropodist may be ill,

My dietician on the pill.

But now it’s time to die my little one.

Mad M.: Forget you.

Mad M.: Ow. What the hell was that? Jeez, it’s causing a throbbing, my veins feel like they’re exploding.

Miss: (Running to him) Oh my dear, what has happened to you my sweet? Was it the fly we could hear? Was it poisonous?

Death: Unless I’m very much mistaken, it was the feared Liechtensteinian common mayfly. Very poisonous, must of hurt, I’d imagine. On of the major symptoms is a fatal miscarriage. Never mind, I’ll stop the pain.

Miss: No…….

Mad M.: You great big oaf, what have you done now? Not content with sort of killing one man, you kill his beloved in his great hour of need. You cruel, vicious man. Have you no heart?

Death: Oh bugger. I wasn’t supposed to do that. The whole point in me coming down here was to save her from you so that Satan could have her as one of his prized minions. Oh God, is he going to be angry. I’m in for it now.

Mad M.: You mean to say that all this is about Satan wanting her as a minion?

Death: That’s what I just said wasn’t it?

Mad M.: I was just clarifying. But as I speak, I can feel the blood pouring out of my veins as the mayfly saps at my life source, filling itself ‘til it bursts. Why should life pass me by at such a steady pace and then in my time of dyin’ flow through like a raging river. It makes me so sad. The pain inside me comes from all directions; there’s the physical pain, of course, but then there’s the emotional pain of my wife now bleeding beside me and the fact that my balloon business has collapsed once and for all – I now have to leave behind my life in the monasteri and the fact that I have just gone through a miscarriage really rips me apart. Oh God, oh Mussolini, please take me away to a better place, a better place than this. There must be something else, there must be something good, far away, far away from here. But why now? I have had such a relentlessly poor life, you would have thought something good would have happened before I’d died. It’s so tragic, I’m so tragic. The only thing vaguely decent that has happened to me was meeting the lovely Miss Tableofresultso and now look what’s happened to her. Her head chopped off and her spleen soaking up the floor cleaner as I speak. Oh what I would have done to save our marriage. If that home wrecker, Nova had not succumbed to the pleasures of evil, none of us would be in this mess. Mess? Mess? Chess – God that is such a dull game, the knight attacks the rook who yells "Help me momma, the gracious pig swiller is after me again," but we all know what’s going to happen next, don’t we? Oh yes. The pig swiller will grab his toupee and fling it into the eternal fires of Rachmaninov which will cough it up complaining of ear ache and then where will we be? Horses riding topless theoughout the country, ice cream vans jumping off cliffs in order to save the world form phantom cider lollies, brass giblets frying themselves in milk to overcome the toils of daily scrub baths. Oh my, oh my. Splash me into the pools so that I can finally meet my end, so that I can be at one with the breakfasts that plague my liver. The Liver Bird may come to heat my boiler but the scouser will not want to see his beloved statue powering my home appliances. He’ll come over here and shout, "Oi, Mad Monk III, you may think you can just take all the monuments in the country, but you’re not taking one of ours, OK?" I’ll gladly give it him back though because Eros is always willing to lend a hand. Oh petty, petty life, it seems that it is almost time to leave you, so I will, before I am killed by the struggle. Goodbye, goodbye, you’ve been a lovely audience. Thank you all for coming and have a pleasant trip home.

Death: God almighty, I thought he’d never go. Anyway, I’ve got a dilema now, haven’t I? What is the boss gonna say to me now? He’ll have my guts for garters and no mistake. I guess I could kill myself but that might be a tad extreme. Then again, the guv’nor will probably kill me anyway so I guess I could always choose my own form of death, which would be nice. Oh I don’t know. I think I’ll sing a song.

Death: Oh I could die or I could die

The options now will never end.

Kill myself or be the killed,

Have you got a life to lend?

Death by name and death by nature,

Sounds like me alright.

I want to end up on a bonfire,

But can you set bones alight?

Death, death, death, death, death, death to Death

Hard to say it all within a breath.

Who’d have thought my time would come?

Goodbye guv’nor, goodbye Mum.

Satan never was a kindly man

Even when smoking on his cigar.

He’d kill anyone who got on his nerves,

They could come from near or afar.

So what should I do? Come on, somebody help me.

Trent: Hey pig. I believe I can help you. Come, get closer, I won’t bite you. The ruiner will get Mr Self Destruct if you don’t watch out and then we’ll end up in a pig march. I’m going to a warm place to meet a big man with a gun and it’ll hurt if the downward spiral takes its toll and the eraser enter the becoming. Anyway, I do not want this so I will help you with your dilema. Your heresy is almost reptilian.

Death: Err, fine. Satan will kill me if I don’t kill myself.

Trent: No problem, kill yourself.

Death: OK then, thanks for the advice.

Trent: It’s OK. I’ll be off then.

Death: See ya.

Trent: Bye.

Death: Yes, I think I will have to kill myself.

Hmmmm, handy. Goodbye cruel world and thank you Roberto Ricardo for quite a handsome part in your wonderful play.

Announcer: (Offstage) So thus ends the tragic story of Mad Monk III. To catch you up with what happened to the more minor characters, I have been employed. OK, Nova, suitor to Miss Tableofresultso (allegedly) left the monasteri and became a balloon seller. He felt it was long enough after the war to carry on the tradition and his shrewdishness earned him millions. Laguna is still a poverty stricken monk. Friar Sockit Tome has regained his position as head of the monasteri since the former head was found hanging from a large bridge. Mysteriously. Satan is very cross, to say the least, but has caught his eye on another possible minion, the cockney paper boy. Mussolini is still head of a cult religion. And I? I am still an announcer. So everyone, give a cheer for the cast as they sing the farewell song, "The Unsettler."

Death: She’s in my dreams all through the day

And sometimes in the night.

Mad M.: She scratches at my skull relentlessly,

Not letting me wonder elsewhere.

The temptress knows just how I feel,

She doesn’t let on herself.

Miss: The temptress digs her heels in harder,

Not knowing when I’ve had enough.

Her repulsive looks draw me even closer

The freakiness brings a smile to my face.

Bloke 1: The image of her frightens the heartless

In the darkness she appears alight.

She’ll speak rarely unto you,

She’ll hiss and glare ‘til you bleed.

Deathmerchant: But the temptress knows not she is unwanted

By the world, yet she carries on.

Nova: The struggle to be loved is one to avoid.

She ignores it with a doubtful smile.

I do not know whether I crave her yet,

There will always be somebody.

Monk 16: I’m gonna chop off your damn legs, little dancing girl

I’ll hack off your arms, pretty petty boy

You both think you’re so far above me,

Well I pity how far you are beneath me.

Mad M.: Be content in your ignorance.

Take pride in your idiocity.

So, if you ever meet a temptress

Don’t let the claws skewer into you.

Ignore the innocence, her false warmth

Unless you feel you could benefit from her.

All: Altogether now!

Thanks to Shaun : Primarily for the use of his purple watering can.

"Yeah, it’s very good. I’ve read it thirty times now and each time it’s like a new experience for me. I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful it is, I might get over excited." Jonservai Hurdygurdy.

"Whoever made up this play should be made poet laureate of the whole world. Oh he is? Fair enough."

"Sorry, I haven’t read it. Aaargh, that hurt."

"It’s absolutely brilliant. The frogs need not plague me any more even though the sirens rip out my heart everytime the bathroom sink explorers find a fishfinger."

"What happened to the shower scene?"

"Yeah, not bad."

Copyright 1997 by Frenchlesssonsmakemeecstatic Publications