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.

Thursday, March 30, 2006


I have completley changed my life. I have decided to desexualise myself by dressing like a 1910 parody of a man. I wear pin stripe trousers, top hat and tails, a baroque waist-coat and silver tipped eboney walking cane. I de-feminize my girlish features by sporting some ginger brown mutton chops and whiskers.

I make my money from rich, happy workers in the financial sector who have problem free contented lives. I give them deep philosophical problems over which to fret, so they can experience the inner turmoil and existential angst that is constitutuive of the human condition.

I have discovered than the source of my personal suffering is an unshakable self-regard which manifiests itself in a contempt for my fellow conspecifics.

I have thus from an act of will humbled myself by destroying my self respect, esteem and confidence.

The effect is remarkable. I now walk down Oxford street in my ridiculous garb, and I am truely walking down the high street of the GODS! I am a deformed idiot compared with these people. They jostle past me on their lofty business which is beyond my ken. The talk gaily with one another in meliflous voices, they are so tall and beautiful and dressed in incredible clothes, shiny, comfortable and hooded in case of sudden rain.

And the buildings and the cars, the mobile phones and the technology on display behind beautiful windows of sheeted glass. What marvelous species has made these things? Things that are way beyond my craft.

And I ponder that there have been Americans on the moon! I find it difficult to replace an inner tube on my bicycle, but these people who are supposedly my kind, have designed and built a craft that flew to the moon! And they would have gone again! But they decided there was no point!

I had sushi for lunch. Sushi! I am so humbled.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

back to reality

I was disputing with a well heeled stranger about the existence or otherwise of Latigo Flint. The stranger, urbane and afflicted with post modern education, put forward the hypothesis that Latigo Flint did not in actuality exist.

"Latigo Flint once cried war to the wolves in their own language. Or he would have done in the right hypothetical situation. And he once re enacted a fictional shoot out. Are these the actions of a man who does not exist?"

Although my new prostitution career hadn't really worked as a way of neutralising the wealth imbalance in my relationship with my boyfriend, it had freed up a lot of time to have idle existential conversations with strangers in coffee shops.

"But you only know of these events through reading the blog, and I am saying that the blog is fictional. You don't believe these blogs are the autobiographies of actual lives do you?" The stranger took off his thick rimmed 60s style spectacles and chewed an arm affectatiously.

"Well, I've seen "Hen" in Islington, so he must be real." I rejoined.

"But how do you know that you exist. I mean, after all, what kind of a name is Helga Von Porno?" The stranger leant back, as if he had made some conclusive statement.

"It is my name!" I was tumbling through nauseous unsteadiness. "And Helga is a common name in Germany, and Von Porno is rare, but only because my grandmother's great grandmother made it up when she decided to throw off the yoke of patriarchy. And anyway. what about Old Horsetailsnake, and Stellblog, and Sometimes funny is all I have? Are you trying to say that these names are more real than mine?"

"Prove to me that you exist." Said this frenchified irritant.

So I stubbed my cigerrette into to the palm of my hand and gripped the pain in with my lips on my teeth, the pain than engulphed my whole hand with intense light of unbearable consciousness. When I looked at him with defiant hatred there were tears in my eyes.

"That proves nothing," He said, "For all I know, you are pure fantasy."

"Well, how about this. You pay me forty pounds, I dress up as a Nazi school boy, with leather shorts and brown shirt, you take me from behind. Then your fantasy will be a nazi school boy, so you will know that I can't be your fantasy."

The Stranger agreed and I remember thinking, am I proving my existence here, or just earning £40 as he grunts and slobbers in my ear.

I cycled away on my new bike into the cruel North East wind, thinking on how I had tried to fight capitalist fire with fire, and now had the freedom of the leisure classes paid for by about two hours of sordid episodes a week. I had sold my sex to money, and now had the leisure time to develope my spirit. My boyfriend, when he found I was plying my trade elsewhere, tried to prevent me by hiring me all the time. I refused, just to hurt him, and to stop him from using his money to control me. Money had polluted everything. But at least I had a big wad of notes in my purse.

I cycled far, far, far, the north wind sucking out the life from my very bones. I came to a desolate hill, surrounded by woodland. I shrieked the banshee shriek of the last of the Von Pornos and bared my breasts to the sickle moon, death's sythe. I felt myself lose my existence and fill with the roaring of the existence of everything, the wind, the sap, the rushing blood of the seething populace. I was lost in a religious ecstacy, one with mother nature and her brutal bloodied fangs.

I heard rustling in the bushes that snapped me out of my trance. To my horror, men came tumbling and running towards me. Big fierce pretty men, with delicate features, pointy noses and ears. And there were women also. Beautiful wonderful women. And they were laughing and playing maliscious tricks. They poked me and prodded me, and danced around me, and pushed me falling from one to the other. I fell into the arms of man after man who span me around in a gay waltz.

As they didn't harm me my fear subsided, and they welcomed me. They took me to a glade where a great wooden table was set out with fruits and meats like a wedding hat. They sat me down and dressed me in a gown of finely woven silk and beads of gold and crystal. A goblet was put in my hand and they toasted me with some strange liquour that tasted like life itself with all its bitter sweetness.

"All hail the last of the Von Pornos, the seventh daughter"

But once you have eaten the food and drink of the fairies you are stuck in their twi light world.

I spent seven years among them, living a life of continuous mischief and magic. I resided in a rose, they thought the thorns suited my beautiful brutality.

Then one moonlight night I called a curse on the Fairy king for some imagined slight, and he grew wroth and banished me with a sweep of his arm.

I found myself, breasts exposed, on that self same hill where I had shrieked to the moon seven years ago. And bike was lying just where I had left it.

I cycled back into town, into my new flat above Warren street. I looked at my alarm clock. It was the same night. My seven years in fairy land had passed in the twinkling of an eye!

Monday, March 20, 2006

Losing the point

I went to this poetry evening in RADa in town. I wore an outfit that attracts furtive looks from men with their girls, and down right impudent looks from men on their own. It was the punk side of chic with a ring zip at the thigh. I sat alone drinking vodka from my hip flask and was joined by a beatnik with a tutankamhun beard, a floppy black bere and a glass of absynth. He was telling me that he got a five star review for his poems, but he didn't understand why they put a "B" at the beginning and a "ks" at the end. He was a communist.

I told him how I was trying to undermine the capitalist power myboyfriend had over me by charging him for sex, but how it had gone wrong, and now our economic imbalance was being expressed in the bedroom. How he was getting me to crawl around on all fours in ridiculous outfits and fucking me in humiliating ways.

The beatnik told me that if he was free to turn sex into a client service provider exchange, that meant I was free to sell my services else where.

I agreed to try out this new expansion of my freedom for forty pounds in the rather luxurious toilets in this establishment for dramatic education.

I must admit I became aroused, with the back of my neck against one wall of the cubical and my stilleto heels against the other. Then in a flash of inspiration I slapped him hard across the face. He came instantly, making a kind of babyish crying noise.

I felt like I had his number so I turned him round and slapped him hard across the buttocks several times. Then I took off a shoe and forced the spiked heel up his arsehole.

The miserable pervert came again.

I pulled his face around by his bike handle beard and took his wallet from his trousers. He had £200 in there and I peeled off £180 in front of his face. I rolled up the last twenty and put it up his nose.

I looked hard and long into his eyes, then spat in his face. "You miserable fool, B*****ks isn't a five star review, it means bollocks."

Monday, March 13, 2006

Only Me

My Grandmother's funeral was dissappointing. The thing had a civic smell. She was cremated with as much ceremony as having your passport checked at border control. There was no big pall of flames as she raged against some spirit of the underworld. I couldn't even hear or smell anything but the rollers that the coffin slid on. No one turned up.

The squat was repossessed, I couldn't go back there. I had nothing. I stood in the road, my legs a V down my arms a V up to the bright blue sky, and the world span, the universe span, and I was the hub, I am the centre of the universe.

I threw Olga Von Porno's manuscript into the gutter. It was all lies. Mad ramblings of an insane woman, just like my grannies book, just like my blog. Oh why are we Von Porno women so fucking mad. WHY AM I SO MAD??

I decided on the following proposal to the flop haired fop. Look, we can't get on, because you are too rich, your money means too much to me, the relationship isn't equal. But you want to fuck me, and I want your money. So why don't you pay me to have sex with you. A hundred pounds a time, and forty for a blow job.
You don't have to treat me like a whore. Except in so far as you pay to have sex with me. You can still introduce me to your parents and things like that. We can talk about emotions, that's fine. If you are up to it we can talk about physics.

He was shocked at first, but I pointed out that he spends more on a couple of lunches than he would need to give me. And if he was good, and had given me enough for the week, I may let him have a few for free.

Although he pretended to look hurt I could see he was aroused. I rubbed his crotch a little and said, "come on, I know we both want it, and you can afford it, and I really really want it, you're such a man, you make me feel so safe and weak and the same time" and on until we ran to the cash point and made love on the floor just inside his apartment door on a bed of ten pound notes.

Fuck plastering

Thursday, March 09, 2006

The Manuscript was a journal written by Olga VonPorno, my grandmother's great grandmother. Seven generations back. It is a tale of her journey to America where she etched a living out of her psychic powers in the wild west. She would predict with considerable accuracy the outcome of gun fights, but gunslingers being what they are, and because of the predetermined nature of fate, the losers would fight none the less, proudfully disdaining Olga's predictions. Realsing the logical difficulty of using her predictive vision to alter the course of Fate and put a stop the the violent waste of young proud life, she instead would find gamblers and make a fortune betting on the outcome. She spent seven years consorting with gunslingers, gamblers and drunks, and amassed a considerable fortune which she took back home to Germany and set up the matriachal Von Porno line.

One extract sent a thrill through me and I thought would be of special interest to readers of this blog.

"Dusty afternoon, Sunday I think, didn't stop the heathens drinking though, and spitting. The book was on Stairwell Flint V Itchy DunMorag. Usual puerile reasons, Stairwell accused Itchy of stealing his tobaccy pouch and his favourite pipe carved from the shin bone of a real indian squar. We all know that Stairwell's a dreamer and that ain't no human bone pipe, but that's to the side.
The fact was Itchy stole so much that he didn't know whether he stole that pipe or not. He certainly didn't have it no more and couldn't therefore return it. He never could understand the notion of private property however much people tried to beat it into him. To Itchy, the wind and the sea and the water in the rivers was no different from manufactured goods and trade items like fur and horn. And I loved him for that, he was more like a creature than a man. And if you saw him itching his palms, you'd best lay your hands on your valued possession, or they'd be gone like last summer.

I went into a trance and flew up to the seven orbs and the magic pinacle from which I can see the great plain of four dimensional fate, and I saw that poor Stairwell would croak. I saw him bubbling blood from his lips and I saw myself clutching his dying body and saying some words to him.

I found some strangers who were prepared to bet against Itchy and made a pretty big book. Itchy was somewhat unpopular in these parts on account of his stealing, and these uneducated heathens believed that there was some kind of justice working these gunfights and fixing the white hat to win. But I could see the plains of fate, and I knew that kind of justice was a dream. I hate myself for making money this way, but what else can I do? I see what the future is, not what it might be, nor what it should be. In the end I think it is the way it should be. I call that hope, faith and charity.

What was sad is Stairwell had an adorable bride, had he hadn't have had, he might have had had in me since Stairwell cut a fine figure and had a dim witted heathen charm. But there was no competing with Stairwell's bride, she had tumble down hair and far off eyes and was an opening to the heavenly realm. There was peace all around her like shade around a tree. One look at her was a look down a future lane of laughing, dancing, singing, eating and other happy times.

Sadder still his bride was full of child and glowing like blossom. That beautiful couples child would grow up fatherless, and in this dangerous place a father is a useful thing, a living one anyway. A dead one is useful for feeding hounds and pigs, but only for a week or so. And all for what, for a pipe made out of pig shin.

The science of it was, Stairwell always dreamed that he was this hot shot, that he could draw real fast. But the reality was he was slower than Polio Pete, and Polio Pete was slow. He was certainly slower than Itchy, whose flawless mind held no impediment to drawing guns. Itchy had no concepts, not even the concept of private property, and having been around gunslingers for seven years now I have learned that nothing jams a pistol in a holster like concepts. Poor Stairwell had concepts dripping down the inside of his legs. He thought he could be a quick draw by reading up on it.

The badness of psychic foresight is you see the tradgedies twice. So there I was again clutching Stairwell to my Bosom as he lay dying in my arms. I looked into his dreaming confused eyes and went straight into the pinacle over the plain of fate.

"Will my son be a quicker draw than I, Olga? They say you can see the future."

"There will be born unto the seventh generation of your line the quickest quick draw there ever is was or shall be." I answered him. "But he will be born into a time when men will fight with guns no more. A golden age of peace and prosperity and spiritual emptiness. So his talent will be hid from the light under the bushel of modernity. This I see as the unchangeable future."

Stairwell died with this prophesy in his ears.

Thus told Olga VonPorno.
The seventh generation is NOW! The quickest quickdraw is alive today in the age when gunslinging is no more! Someone quite possibly bearing the name of Flint! It seems that Olga VonPorno prophesied the birth and skill of Latigo Flint. Which if true gives credence to her various other predictions of which there are many. In which case some day soon we will be able to record our experiences with little chips we put in our tearducts and will be able to live each other's lives with enormous legal and ethical reprocussions.

But thats another story

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

I want to do the congoooooo...

Two nights ago Magic Larry had us all involuntarily doing the congo to his hypnotic music. We can-canned like zombies up the stairs and up the ladder and through the hatch onto the roof where the front Polish builder, Pete, led us off into oblivion. Like the scientifically discreditted Lemmings, one by one they plunged off the roof to the garden below and landed in a crumpled heap of spent labourer.
"I want to do the congoooooooooooarrgh!" Crunch, thud.
Luckily, just as I put my foot to the edge of the roof terrace, Larry stopped playing abruptly and I pirroetted away from the edge. But still in a stupor I pirroetted a full 360 and teetered a ballet along the guttering. No chance to balance myself, I leapt through the air instead, and clung onto a lamp post that I shimmied down with minimal chaffing to my inner thigh.

I was free, free from the zombie world of plastering. I was on the pavement of Camden Road, my breath an orange lamp light mist. I daren't look in the garden of dead builders. I ran up the road away, away, until I was safe enough to do an inventory.

I had £30 pounds scrunched up in my purse, and still had the keys to grannies squat. £30 and two missing weeks under the hypnotic thrall of Magic Larry and Rob.

Granny! I had been completely neglecting her.

I found her blue faced dead eyed, and, to my relief, wheezing still, like a hidden sick cat.

In her wrinkled hand under her fur coat, she clutched the yellowing pages of and old, old manuscript.

"Helga.." she croaked in a whisper, all she could muster

She put the manuscript in my lap and collapsed face first into the floor boards.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Magic Larry

I lost my job in the Islington bar when I bit a customers cheek and drew blood after a misunderstanding due to a vague predicate.

I have always been attracted to the building trade. I come from a family of intellectuals, dissidents, and aristocrats, so the honesty of actual work has always seemed a virtuous ideal. Also I am attracted by the pervasive maleness of the scaffolded over world. If I could drink sweet tea four stories up and shout obscenities at passersby, I will have penetrated this secret kingdom of men. The idea of being an illegal worker attracted me even more. The strange paradox of honest labour being illegal, by working with your hands and making something tangible and valuable to others, you could at the same time be an out-law hunted by the agents of the government.

The man to see was Rob, his office a pub in Royal College street in Camden called the eagle. He was a twinkly eyed Dubliner, with thin brown hair and a tall thin sickly body. I had expected to encounter sexism, but not Rob's sexism. He gave me an ironical smile from behind his pint and tossed a beer mat on the floor.
"Pick that up without bending yer knees."
Confused, I did as he asked.
"Oh and Helga" he said, and I looked over my shoulder at him leering lecherously at my backside.
"It'll be a pleasure to have you on the job"

We worked hard long hours and Rob made up for our pitiful wages by taking us out each night drinking lager and snorting cocaine. When the pub's shut we all go back to his house on Camden road. Every night is a party in this low life flop house. It was a mixed bag of malcontents. Illegal immigrants, bigamists, unlicensed tobacco traders, TV liscense evaders and parents of fictional children. All under the same roof, singing our dirty songs of hard work and harder drink.

Then Magic Larry would begin to play the hinky tink piano.

Somesay Larry fell into a cauldron of magic mushrooms at birth. Others say that he took some magic mushrooms at Stonehenge in 76 and has been magic ever since. Whatever the truth is, he is locked in a magic realm. His coulorful mismatched clothes change colour and form as you look at them. His face is likely a cloudy windy sky, a shifting mass of sunbeams, rainbows, dark clouds despair, angry lightening and carthartic rain.

When he plays the piano our legs move uncontrollably and I am often forced into an involuntary dance with a leering Pole. Last night, he had five of us, including two bigamists, dancing like Herons, with our human eyes trapped in this splendid puppet show.

When Larry stops playing we slump to the floor and fall into a deep slumber, only to be awoken by Rob, fed greul and sent out in the dark of the morning to work ourselves to the bone.

I plaster all day, my hairs nails and skin becoming white and brittle dry. And then when the days is done, there comes the night, and magic Larrys human puppet show. Day and night, night and day, seeming an endless comic opera, a meaningless and discordant escape.