The manager says I’ve got too many candles on stage; if health and safety pay a visit, they’ll have a fit. I told him that I have to have the candles.

‘It’s intrinsic to the act. I must be surrounded by candles, crosses and other religious paraphernalia. It’s fundamental to my artistic expression.’

Phil looked bored and irritated.

‘The punters aren’t interested in candles, Reverend,’ he said, watching me put my dog collar on, ‘not unless you gonna stick some up your arse as a finale. All they want is to see your big knob at the end, OK?’

‘You’re the boss,’ I said wearily, leaning closer to the mirror to apply an eyelash.  Phil watched me for a moment.

‘No more than twelve candles OK? You’re gonna set yourself alight one night, never mind anyone else.’

I threw him an expression of mock tragedy and sighed.

‘One must suffer for one’s Art.’

Phil smiled.

‘You're on in ten,’ he said, and moved towards the door. ‘Oh, and one more thing: the crown of thorns -. had a complaint last week – someone thought it was blasphemous.’

‘Really? The Bishop cruising gay bars again is he?’

He laughed.

‘Just tone it down a bit, OK?’

Phil left the dressing-room and I stood up, checking myself in the full-length mirror:  dark suit, black bib and white dog collar; hair slicked back; white powdered face, red lips and exaggerated black eye-liner; the cheek-bones hollowed with shadows.

Marvellous, I thought. The perfect combination of pastoral respectability, gothic horror and gender distortion – though Phil was right, any attempt at artistry and symbolism was wasted on this load of Philistines. I checked my props box: brass cross, flagon of red wine, crown of thorns. The crown was a triumph; I’d spent a whole afternoon plaiting hawthorn twigs; pricking and scratching my fingers until they bled.

‘The Lamb of God!’ I said aloud, suddenly remembering the blow-up lamb – well it was a sheep really - one of those novelty gifts that turn up at rugby club dinners. For the purposes of my act it was the Lamb of God. I picked up the deflated toy and began blowing into the valve between its legs. Floozie, the drag queen, walked past the door.

‘Ooh, look at Robert Runcie tending his flock,’ she cackled. I smiled and continued blowing, feeling slightly dizzy from all the puffing.

‘Hiya, Flooz,’ I said, finishing and stopping the valve. ‘You all set?’

‘Sure am Honey,’ she said coming in to the room and standing over me to adjust her bust in the mirror. ‘You want the usual big build up tonight?’

‘Yeh. Lots of Hell Fire and Damnation. Oh – and can you read this out too, off-stage, in a big boomy voice?’ I handed her a piece of paper. She took it and read aloud.

 ‘“Do not lie with a man as one lies with woman; because it is detestable.”.

‘From the Bible: Leviticus 18:22,’ I explained. She looked down at me, raising her eyebrows.

‘You sure people want the full fucking sermon? They’re supposed to be having fun.’

‘I just want to make it a bit edgier; stir up those dormant feelings of sin and guilt. You read it over the top of Verdi’s Dies Irae as I come on stage.’ Floozie wasn’t convinced.

‘Edgy is all well and good love, but maybe you should try a bit more Edna Everage and a bit less Ian Paisley.’

‘Please?’ I said grabbing her hand.

She looked down at me intently.

‘You beat yourself up, don’t you? – in your act I mean.’

I blushed under the white powder.

‘It’s a sort of flagellation isn’t it?  Beating yourself up, but beating God up too.’

I shrugged, trying to adopt a blank, inscrutable face, but Floozie was persistent; you couldn’t hide anything from her.

‘You actually believe in all that Bible shit, don’t you?’

I gave no reply, avoiding her spider-lashed eyes. She sighed.

‘Well, it’s your show Honey. Just make sure that you don’t beat us all up doing it,’ she said and left the dressing room.

‘Five minutes!’ a voice shouted down the corridor.

*    *    *    *

I did my act as planned: a very private passion conducted in front of a congregation of Bacardi-soaked queens.  They seemed to enjoy it, though there were a few silent, perplexed moments. No complaints though. But then all they probably saw through the haze of smoke was a man taking his clothes off – and candles, lots of candles: thirty-six to be precise. Well, you can't ignite the flames of Hell with only twelve candles, can you?