The Man With A Long Chin's Diary


Dancing With Madonna



I've got a new job now as one of Madonna's backing dancers. To get in shape for our upcoming performance at the Brit Awards, I've been forced to undertake a strict diet and exercise regime, as per my new employer's orders.

At 4am every morning, I am woken by the massive, manly hands of Madonna beating me about the head and throat, as she straddles my hammock. Before I am even fully awake, she has scooped several large fistfuls of dry chia seeds into my yawning maw, while repeatedly calling me a "sissy bitch" in what I can only assume to be a mocking, mid-Atlantic drawl.

Madonna then grabs me by the ankles, and forcibly immerses my entire body into a wooden trough full of iced water and quinoa. Then - barring brief meal breaks to consume damp balls of chia seeds, quinoa and kale (which are glued together with Madonna's own drool) - I must march around the grounds of her sprawling mansion until dusk, as she bangs her feet rhythmically on an enormous kettle drum, inscribed with the names of her former lovers. This occurs while Madonna has extra veins cosmetically implanted into her arms.

As the sun sets, the yelping pop queen releases the hounds - toned, greased, starving, shrieking homosexuals, wearing nothing but leather thongs, who hunt me me down and drag me back to her spherical, furniture-less boudoir, where I am expected to sway back and forth in time to her latest desperate attempt to prove she can still produce cutting-edge club music.

Typically, these work-in-progress demo mixes feature a squawking, repetitive electronic pulse, over which Madonna denounces the Catholic Church and Lady Gaga through an improvised vocoder (a vacuum cleaner tube, with one end covered by tissue paper) - accompanied by a wet slithering sound, which is that of the hounds caressing her sinewy, semi-naked body with their greased limbs.

I am finally allowed to sleep at around 3.37am.


It may have been hard work, but I am finally in the best shape of my life: my muscles are so perfectly-sculpted that I am able to open jars of anchovies with my chest, tubes of Pringles with my abdomen, and tins of Spam with my anus. I look amazing in a pair of tight leather trousers, and I have to wear a pair of special blinkers, so that I don't get accidentally turned on by myself.

I have also had a thorough, all-over waxing - not an inch of my body has hair on it; not even my nostrils, eyelids, or heels. I have been fully depilated through a technique pioneered in Japan, where it was perfected by the stripping the baleen hair from the mouths of narcissistic blue whales.

We have now begun rehearsals for the Brits show - which have been inspired by the famous Running of the Bulls festival. Madonna is to play the part of the matador, wearing a flowing silk cape, as she throws real spears at we, her cowering dancers.

The climax of the show will see Madonna squirming in the blood that drips from our wounds, as we slowly die - our mournful lowing synchronising perfectly with the climatic, stuttering beats of her latest skilfully appropriated European club mix.


Unfortunately, I've had to stop being one of Madonna's backing dancers, as the events of the past few days finally overwhelmed me, and I attempted to strangle her with the cape as she ascended a staircase, in the middle of our Brits performance. It was worth it though. It was well funny.

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