Me: Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
It’s been 36 years since my last Confession.
Father: Better late dan never, moi choild.
What would you loike to confess?
Me: Lots of stuff, really, but the worst of it has to do with Robbie Williams.
Father: Dat your fella?
Me: Jesus, no. Sorry, Father…
It’s more that I crave his suffering.
Father: Good gracious, don’t be sayin’ a ting loike dat.
Me: I know, that’s why I’m here.
He’s a popstar, sort of. Out of action for a while but back off his break.
Way too back.
Father: Singin’ and stoff?
Me: I suppose so. It’s hard to tell.
These urges I have, Father. I find them hard to control.
Father: Don’t we all, my choild.
Oi mean, yes, the body is a powerful force.
Me: Not the body, Father, the mind; I want him dead. Here’s how:
He’s stomping around on stage like an overgrown kid marching to the Tweenies theme-tune when I come up behind him with a microphone wire and tighten it enough to stifle his vocal chords.
Only it doesn’t make any difference because he’s holding the mic out for the audience to join in his desperate ditty so I pinch the top of his nose instead so he can’t breathe.
Father: Dis is fearfully voilent, moi choild.
Me: Do you think? Should I give him a Chinese burn too? Don’t answer now. Have a think about it.
Anyway, next I come round the front to reveal myself and he’s shocked because I’m a girl and he thought we all fancied him and I say, ‘Sorry, not me- especially when you start speaking’, and then I pummel him in the chest and floor him with a Kung Fu move.
Finally, I stand over him with my stiletto pressing down on his black shirt and sing ‘Angels’ really softly so he looks quite peaceful as he passes away, even though the audience are on their feet cheering.
And that’s it, Father. I don’t feel good about myself.
I’m going to Hell, aren’t I?
Father: You may well be, moi choild. Oi’ll pray for you.
Me: No worries, Father, as long as you pray for Robbie and make sure he goes to Heaven.