Wally Lomax, The Most Offensive Comedian In The World. No, Really.

He shat onstage
in his prostrate girlfriend's mouth
during the end of year nativity
when they were both seven;
she, the mother of Christ,
he, descended from Heaven
as the Angel of the Lord.
Camcorders whirred throughout
the silent, uncanonical defecation,
all eager to record
what, in retrospect, was a situation
far too edgy for
You've Been Framed.
The music teacher, Mrs Brecht,
danced anxiously in the wings,
aware that her job hung in the balance
yet loathe to wreck
a moment of genuine spontaneity.
When the first, nervous sman
leaked from the audience
like a fart at a funeral
eyes darted, lips parted
and soon they were all
cackling and knee-slapping
like pissed-up pirates.
Ironically,
one mother with weak bowels
actually crapped herself laughing.
The boy pulled up his shit-smeared trousers
and took a bow,
grinning from ear to ear.
No one knew that they'd just witnessed
the beginning of a career.

Wally started out in backstreet clubs
with an act called
'The Tinker Man',
where he'd shamble onstage,
dildos gaffer-taped to either hand,
and launch into a rambling monologue
about using jaffa cakes
to win the trust of blind kids,
licking his lips as he spoke of
tricks with lollies
shaped like erect todgers.
Jokes about raped codgers
and rogered toddlers followed
in scattergun volleys;
Wally splattered pig dung across
his chest and for the show's big climax
broke character,
confessing that he really was
a child molester,
desperate to be arrested.
'Please,' he'd protest, stinky and breathless,
'I fuck kids.
Someone tell the police.'
Audiences creased up in the ecstasy of release,
intuitively understanding that to act affronted
meant you were too thick to get it.

In a Benzedrine frenzy
fanzines emptied dickloads
of praise and envy
on counterculture's new
sick prince,
dubbing Lomax
'magnificently iconoclastic'
when he debuted a skit
about skull-fucking a spastic.
When he ate his own shit
before Buckingham Palace
his renown grew immense
as a huge engorged phallus.
Reviewers fell over themselves
to claim they got what he was doing '
there was no greater sin
than to be the only one booing.
He shot down hecklers
like a campus sniper:
'Oi! Shut your cock-slot!
If I wanted to listen to a cunt
I'd have the football on mute
while I fuck your mum!
And don't give me that
"My mum died of leukaemia
six months ago, bullshit neither;
I'll fuck her anyway,
I'm kinky like that!'
When at last the Daily Mail
ran a front page screaming:
'BAN THIS EVIL
DEGENERATE!'
Wally knew he'd finally made it.

'RUSH TO SEE THIS
GROUNDBREAKING
ALTERNATIVE COMEDIAN!'
frothed every other paper
the very next day.

Wally stepped it up a gear.
He said child abuse
was 'a bit of a laugh',
that those obtuse kids
shouldn't shit in the bath.
Claimed gayness was
'a sentimental perversion'
and pregnant women
should get the sack.
Buggered a chimp in blackface
to an instrumental version of Get Back.
Stuck posters of severed testicles
up round London
reading:
'Missing:
The Nation's Bollocks.
Have You Seen Us?'
No
you've never seen a man
kill so many molluscs
using only his penis.
Wrote a treatise
on the Hungarian famine
called:
Hungry Hungary Gypos.
Recreated Auschwitz
using Lego men and Zippos.

In his Edinburgh show,
he jacked off
into a heap
of aborted foetuses;
the Guardian said:
'What a sordid treat this is.
As he masturbates
Lomax attacks our failed debates
and maps the outer limits
of what society tolerates.'
The Independent hailed it as
'A glorious
zeitgeisty commentary
on the warped internal logic
of political correctness'
while the Times just praised his
'stoic erectness'.

He was just so fucking cool.
Only a fool
would act offended
when Wally defended genocide;
sure, folks pretended
to be scandalised
when he vandalised
a women's refuge
but underneath they were all
getting off on
the nudge-wink subterfuge:
I'm in on it ' are you?
There was nothing he could do
to offend people anymore.
He spewed slews of racial slurs
and audiences brayed like mules
'til their faces were blurs.
He called them all pretentious cunts.
He said, 'It's not a joke.
There's no joke.
Stop fucking laughing.'
But they only laughed louder.

He couldn't take a crap
without getting clapped.
One day, Wally Lomax snapped.

'You want a joke?
I'll give you a fucking joke.'
He dragged paraplegics from wheelchairs
leaving spokes spinning
slapped the bums of grieving mums
and choked kittens grinning.
Shat on graves
waved while he force-fed
diabetics angel cake
shrieking, 'Look! Look!
I'm shagging the hole
in the dialectic!'
Aimed strobe lights
at the epileptic,
got paralytic and hit women
without irony,
waded into schoolyards,
pistols blazing,
'til the air got sireny.

Cornered in a classroom
Wally knew it was crunch time;
turned the gun on himself
for the ultimate punchline.

The public enquiry was brief as a sneeze;
the coroner dubbed it
'a bloody good wheeze'
as killing sprees went '
see, he knew mass bereavement
was meant as a joke,
quite a classy achievement, that,
having a poke
at commodified grief
and the final taboo;
such a modern motif
yet a funny one, too.
And on the comic's tomb
the mason writ
this fitting epitaph:
To Our Dear Wally Lomax '
You Had The Last Laugh.