helga von porno

Tales of my fortunes in London involving philosophy time travel heroin addicted granny, prophesy, prostitution, murder, global conspiracy, friends, and personal finances. I am from east germany and fled to england when my parents where murdered and have been living here unofficially since.

Monday, February 27, 2006


I read in Freakonomics that people who do not publish a photo of themselves on their blog are considered ugly. In the interests of truth I shall tell an anecdote that proves that I am beautiful.

Having had my bike stolen I mounted a bus in a blazing blue eyed rage. I sat next to an old gentleman with "bugger handles" (wispy grey side burns) wearing a tweed suit and smelling of pipe tobacco, gin and humbugs.

"I am old," he offered unsolicited, "And therefore care not a fig for social approbation. I speak my mind, and I have a mind that you are one of the most beautiful creatures I have ever seen. Your skin is unblemished and translucent, your eyes an opera of fierce blue tradgedy, your body is taught and firm like a pouncing tiger, yet your breasts tell a milky soft story of gentleness and nurture."

Being four points higher on the angry scale than my normal angry scornful self, I took offence at these highly personal and presumptious comments, and shot him a look of violent hatred and scorn, with my Wagnerian blue eyes.

"I am cognizant with Einstein's theory of relativity, special and general, with Godel's incompleteness theorem, with Das Kapital, the early and late Wittgenstein," I spluttered "and the Origin of the Species. I am fluent in English, my third language after German and Russian. I am a mistress of the art of violence and have disarmed and disemboweled and trained and armed KGB assassin, and before you judge me, five minutes after I witnessed him killing my own parents. I can play Bach on the Piano, and can hear the Magic Flute in my mind's ear from beginning to end. I can deactivate the alarms and hotwire 15 models of automobile, and I can cycle from Hackney to Hammersmith in 40 minutes, I can pour a pint of guiness to the satisfaction of an elderly Irish immigrant, and I am a skilled plasterer. Yet you praise the surface of my body! Pah! You are like a witless rube who praises the flower of a beetroot, without realising that the real thing of beauty lies beneath the surface."

"Ah yes, the beetroot," Mumbled the man, blushing slightly, then he gave me a look of apology which was the exchanged look between equals, which mollified me and my rage simmered down.
"I too am an intellectual, I was professor of rocket science at Cambridge university before they fired me after it was alleged that I was a pederast, an allegation that I did not have the energy to deny since I was on the brink of discovering faster than light travel! I would love you to come back to my house where I have continued my research privately and give me your opinion of my fabulous breakthrough."

"I would consider it an honour Herr professor" I rejoined, and he led me off the bus into his Hampstead abode. Black and white tiles led to the black and gold door, with lions and griffons guarding on either side. The house was filled with books and manuscripts, and rows of test tubes and strange instruments for which I could but dimly fathom the function. I noticed A Critique of Pure Reason, by Emanuel Kant lying open next to some sweet smelling concotion bubbling over a Bunsen burner, and by its side, a manuscript of scarcely decipherable equations written in a spidery hand. The bottom most equation was underlined several times with three exclamation marks.

"Would you like some tea, Ms Von Porno?" He called from the kitchen/chemical store.
"Please, call me Helga, Herr Prof. I don't mind if I do, I have it the builders way, three sugars and milky."
"And you may call me Errol." replied the alleged pederast, and we sat down on worn old armchairs around the pelt of a Bengal Tiger that Errol claimed to have killed with a spear in his more vigorous youth.
"Now to business, I have just completed my faster than light Rocket and I would like you to accompany me on the first flight. Are you in?"
"I am in." I said seriously and held his gaze for a full three minutes, till he looked down, eyes watering.
He led me into an enjoining chamber with a dining room table and a piano and at one end, a Space Rocket. It was about 2 meters high, and one and a half meters in diameter and had the appearance of two communal dustbins balanced upon one another. My heart sank slightly as I began to doubt the alleged pederast's integrity.
Errol strode confidently up to the machine and opened a door. In side it was decked out in leopard skins and panther skins with sumptuous cushions thrown around, and in the centre a bubbling cauldron that was filling the rocket with a perfumed vapour.
"Ladies first!" He bluffed.
"But, the ceiling... How?....It cannot work!" I blustered.
"I apologise, I should explain," blathered the Prof, "The rocket works on the principles of Kant's Transcendental idealism. Space is transcendentally ideal and can be comprehended through intuition in the space of reasons."
"Okay professor, cut the baby talk, I am familiar with The Critique of Pure Reason"
"Well then, if one simply rejects the existence of God, one can manipulate the space time manifold through the power of intuition."
"Genius!" I cried, genuinely excited for the first time since the eve of my Parent's murder.
"So rather than traveling through space, we will rearrange space such that we are where we want to be." He droned.
"So why the cauldron?"
"Oh, that is a mixture of psycho active chemicals which will help us reach a transcendental state in which we can manipulate the manifold. I am hoping that our minds can meld and I can take advantage of your extra powerful female intuition."
We sat down in the Rocket and before long there was utter confusion, I was seeing flashing lights and hearing voices from the past and the future. Errol kept stroking my arms and my legs and telling me to keep calm, this was the adjustment period, and that soon our minds would meld and the journey would begin.

Then everything became clear and beautiful. I looked into Errol's eyes and he had become handsome and dashing and I felt an enormous physical attraction for him in my belly. We opened the door of the Rocket and walked out into a barren moonscape of some strange distant planet. I had a wonderful feeling of lightness, and we bounded across the dunes laughing like delighted children.

We came across a shimmering lake surrounded by fruit trees bearing fruit like great jewels. I picked one and put it to my mouth, it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. Tall long legged beings came up to us and danced a graceful dance for us. They took us by the hands and led us skipping and singing to a splendid palace.

In the palace I looked at Errol and he looked at me, and we knew that we were in love. The graceful beings saw this too and led us to a chamber with a great golden bejeweled bed and left us in peace to consummate our love.

We had the most savage, animalistic, ecstatic bout of love making I have ever experienced, and in the midst of my orgasm I felt my soul tearing free from my heart and joining that of Errol's, and we flew through the winds of space and time spinning and dancing like petals on an alpine breeze.

I lost consciousness.

When I awoke I was in Errol's house in Hampstead, naked, with some scratches and bruises on my arms and legs. Errol was in the corner of the room on an armchair, reading a newspaper, (The Telegraph) and smoking a pipe. He had resumed the outward form of a stinking old man.

"Where are my clothes?" I asked,
"On the floor by the bed, where you left them." He replied with gruff disinterest.

embarrassed, and confused, I pulled on my clothes under the sheets. When I was dressed, I felt all of a sudden a huge revulsion for the alleged pederast, and couldn't swallow enough bile to allow me to speak. Stiff and sore, I staggered to the door and then fled out of that Godless house forever.

So now you can see, I am beautiful, and also clever!

Saturday, February 25, 2006

The Mayor of London

My new revolutionary comrades are encouraging me to write more on the blog to deseminate their political ideas. However, my grasp of politics is weak so I will just tell what it was we did last night.

Apparently, about a year ago the democratically elected Mayor of London was at a party where people of all creeds, races, genders and sexual orientation discussed freely and rationally various community based issues. An evil bigot from an evil biggoted news paper group, The Daily Mail and Evening Standard, (a paper that had recommended that the government refuse entry of Jewish refugees into Britain during the second world war,) tried to get into the party in order to assasinate the Democratically Elected Mayor and replace him with a right wing racist puppet. The mayor politely asked him why he was trying to assasinate him, and the journalist said he was just following orders. The Democratically Elected Mayor told the Journalist that he was like a german in World War 2. The Journalist replied that he was Jewish, and that it is an unwritten part of the constitution of Great Britain that Jewish people should never be compared to Germans in world war 2.

A year later, an unelected body of Beef Eaters declared that the Mayor should be locked in the Tower of London for making this terrible comparison. Apparently, Jews are so superior to Germans that they find it insulting to be compared in any way. It turned out that the Democratically Elected Mayor of London was responsible for the Holocaust, where 6 million Jews were murdered by Germans who were just following orders. This was plausible since The Mayor was alive during world war 2, but it seems far fetched to all but the majority of unelected beef eaters.

Holocaust survivors and car drivers crowded the streets while The Democratically Elected Mayor was led on a cart, with a hood over his head and his hands tied behind his back. Car drivers want to humiliate the Mayor because he introduced a tax that makes car drivers have to pay for some of the incredible damage they cause, instead of spreading the pollution and filth amoung us all, and for us to pay for the priveledge.

They decided to give The Democratically Elected Mayor a fair trial. The trial was they got a Right wing Jewish journalist to slap The D. E. Mayor across the cheek. If he turned the other cheek, this would clearly demonstrate that he was likening his trial to the trial of Jesus by the Jews and was therefore anti semetic. If on the other hand he slapped the journalist back, this would clearly demonstrate that he was a jew slapping anti semetic. It was thus demonstrated beyond reasonable doubt that he was anti semetic.

Now came the "confession". They strung him up in front of the angry mob and made him nod his head by getting an unelected Beef eater to grab his hair and shake his head up and down. People from the mob would then accuse him of crimes, and his nodding head was counted as a confession.

Ken Livingston was thus proved to be responsible for:
1 The corrupition of morals in the youth of London
2 Suicide bombers in Palestine.
3 The Nazi Holocaust
4 Having to send our children to school on the same bus as black people.
5 The really bad weather we have been having recently
6 The split between the Protestant and Catholic church.
7 Guiness "Extra cold" black lager

They then cut him down, and allowed the angry mob to maul him a little, but they were only allowed to bite him if they had false teeth, so, although bloodied, he could still walk. Then they made him walk to the Tower, where they threw him in and threw a way the Key.

He shared his cell with some free thinkers, a few libertines, some poets, a satirical cartoonist, a Halocaust denying historian, A september the eleventh denying comedian, and the usual bunch of graffiti artists, skate boarders, repetitive beat party hostesses, cyclists and reclaim the streets organisers.

Cunningly disguised as super heros, we swam the moat and climbed the walls of the Tower. Thug whistled the tune to "Maybe its because I'm a Londoner" to find out in which cell the democratically elected mayor was incarcerated. When he heard "I love London So", being whistled back he knew he had found the Mayor. Pimple camply tickled the bars until they went all bendy with lust. Meanwhile Chris fenced the Beefeaters with his cricket bat.

I swang my leopard skin legs in through the window and gripped the democratically elected Mayor between my thighs. I could see his sweet and honourable face blushing with modest confusion as I hoisted him out of the cell in a tantric embrace. But the base of the wall was full of a regiment of unelected Beef-eaters, surrounded by a mob of car drivers and holocaust survivors armed with pitch forks and dentistry equipment.

We were doomed.

"Save yourselves, its me they want" said the democraticaly elected Mayor, "I'll give myself up and let them tear me limb from limb. I've done everything I can for London, and Londoners, because I love this crazy mixed up city and its ethinically diverse communities. IF they want my blood, I will give every last drop."
And then he looked into my eyes and gently stroked my cheek, "And I especially love you, Helga von Porno. it is eastern european immigrants such as yourself who really make this city great."

But just as The Democratically Elected Mayor was about to dive into the mob, the cavalry arrived! A hundred thousand gleaming Black Cabs charged into the mob and dispersed them.

Everyone came out of their houses with cups of tea with pictures of red buses on them and threw their hats in the air with celebration. "Horay for Ken Livingstone, Love made Flesh" they cried. And Ken Livingstone stood up and spoke unto them
"Forgive the unelected Beef eaters, for they were only following orders" He said, "And I want to give a special thanks to Helga von Porno , the most beautiful and courageous Londoner."
And then they wheeled out a piano and the whole of London joined in on a song of "Knees up Mother Brown", followed by various other songs from different cultures such as "Fuck the Pigs" by Ice Tea so as to reflect the culturally diverse nature of this, the greatest city on earth.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Revolutionary violence

I have some new friends, comrades in arms. We are tired of this filthy crap cityu full of people in their cars driving around telling us that they are better than us. We are like super heros, we all have our own disguise. I am a leopard. We cycle around on our racers taking up the whole road. If some arrogant car driver is angry that he can't get past, we fan out and take the whole road. If, and last night this happened, if he honks his horn, or shouts out of the window some filthy english words, then we have our fun. This man, a blond man of say thirty, he was shouting at us to get out of the way. Chris, who dresses in cricket gear and has a cricket bat in his ruck sack, turns his bike sideways and rolls on to the bonnet. The man stops the car and gets out to do more rude shouting. Pimple, who dresses in purple skin tight lycra, blows a raspberry at him and runs in and out like a jester, provoking him with his trade mark feather duster. "Come on you big fat pouffy wooffy, come to pimple" he camps, skipping backwards. The man lunges forward, still uncomprehending that his illusion of power was based around a life time of indoctrination from car adverts, and he was one weak pathetic man who can't evenj use his own legs to get around this monoxide city, and we were five super heros, fit and taught and angry. While he was chasing pimple's gay dance around the road, Thug, who has tear drops tattoed down both cheeks, reaches in to the mans car and opens the bonnet. Chris, then opensup the oil, and throws in a lighted match. The car engine bursts into flames. We woop and holler and dance around the wreck. Then we mount up and ride off into the wind. Thug has his own and Pimples bike riding parallel, and Pimple, still pursued by the name calling child murdering planet raping car driving man, speeds up into a sprint and mounts the moving bike. We ride off into the wind with our teeth cut and our blood screaming vengeance sated for the daily crime of these grimy bored people who daily maim pollute our peace, our air, our children and our international friendship with the Arab nations.