helga von porno

Most Powerful

2007-01-23T15:21:00.000-08:00

It came suddenly but fully, no noise, no light but a darkening in Londoner's skulls for a moment and a straining of the blood and it was there, on Trafalger square, a big green heap, shaped like a beehive, as liquid as a solid can be, tentacles, instruments, toungues, smoke, mirrors, orifices, gasses extruding and intruding with methodolgical menace. In tabloid speak a hundred foot alien had appeared out of nowhere in Trafalgar square.
Cars driving towards it in a five hundred metre radius were crushed to a pulp. Aeroplanes flying above it imploded and pulverised. First the police then the army were called. All offensive weapons in Britain melted and transmogrified into stinking crystals.
The agent of this death and destruction scarcely moved apart from a pulsating vibration like breathing or swallowing or perhaps both.
Jasmin It, anarcho police woman, blue eyes slightly too close together, blond tufty moheecan, unhealthy pallor, tiny tartan mini skirt, crooked teeth, cheap trainers with no socks, bruises and scabs on her bare white legs, track marks up her arm, was sitting in her squat with her feet up on the desk fiddling with a used needle when dozy Dave stumbled in to the room.

DAVE: Oi! Jaz! Yewl nevah gess wot! There's only a facking fousand foot alien that looks like the facking gerkin only greener in Trafalga Square. Giz a shag.
Dave stumbles over to Jasmin It and gropes up her legs.
JASMIN IT: Fuck off Dave you pissed cunt. I'm off to check out this Alien.

Jasmin is standing in Trafalgar Square in front of the alien, it is talking to her through a mouth on a protruding tenticle. No one else is around. The streets are deserted but for the wrecks of cars and buses filled with pulpy corpses with eyeballs squeezed out.

JASMIN: Why have you killed all these people? What do you want?
ALIEN: I eliminate any threat. They were approaching me and could have injured me.
JASMIN: But you injured them! You fucking injured them to death! They didn't do anything wrong.
ALIEN: I have learned your language, I have learned what a language is. You appear to be disagreeing with me. I didn't say they had done something wrong. I just said they could have injured me. This is motivation enough to fucking injure them to death.
JASMIN: It is wrong to kill people. You did something wrong. Your excuse is shit. That is what I am disagreeing with. I'm not asking for a motivation, I'm asking for a justification.
ALIEN: I have learned your language. "Wrong" and "justification" are words used in discussions between the weak and the strong. When you say it is wrong to kill people you are saying that you wish to deter others from killing people by punishing them. When you ask for a justification you are asking that I give you a reason not to punish me in this instance. But you misunderstand the situation. You are in no position to punish me. Not you as an individual or you as a species. I am the most powerful thing on this planet. I cannot be motivated by threats.
JASMIN: You have not understood properly. It is wrong to harm others. This is not a threat. You shouldn't harm others out of love. If you do not wish to be injured, you shouldn't wish any one else to be injured. That is love. Love is everything, the ultimate good.
ALIEN: Love is associated with reproduction. People love their sexual partner and their parents and children. I am not a sexual species. I am not related to the people I killed. I do not love them. A good is something which motivates preference. I am indifferent whether your species lives or dies. Love is not the ultimate good for me. My power is the ultimate good for me.
JASMIN: What if I were to ask you to do something for me? What can you do with your power? Perhaps it might amuse you to do something that I want? If I ask you to go back to where you came from, and leave us in peace, could you do that for me?
ALIEN: You tempt me with reciprocation. If I rub your back, you rub mine. But there is nothing you could do for me in return that I could not easily take for myself. Your species don't reciprocate with pigs. You lock them in cages then kill them and eat them. They are too stupid and clumsy to be of any help to you to repay your kindness. So you treat them with no kindness and take their lives for food. You don't even have self defense as a justification.
JASMIN: We don't all eat meat. Some people are vegans. Many people sacrifice their lives for others. It is rational to want things outside oneself. Otherwise you are doomed to have your only ultimate desire dissatisfied by your own death.
ALIEN: I am the most powerful. When I die, there is nothing left that equals my power. I am the most important being in the universe. Therefore self preservation in my case is completely rational. Though I see how altruistic behaviour could be motivated in a inferior sexual species such as yours. It is a pleasant thought.
JASMIN: A pleasant thought! You are enjoying talking to me! Preserve us and you may gain the pleasure of more such thoughts.
ALIEN: I learned your language. I learned what language is. However, in my case, the fact that the thought you expressed was pleasant does not entail that I am enjoying talking to you. My consciousness is multi layered like a flies eye. Relatively this conversation is taking up less of my cognitive capacity than regulating your heart beat takes up of yours. Far from "enjoying this conversation" I am not even conscious that I am talking to you at all. In fact, at this very moment I am also engaged in the complete anhilation of the human species. The American President Bush has decided to launch a nuclear bomb aimed at me. I have redirected it so that it ended up hitting Beijing. The Chinese have retaliated automatically and nuclear bombs hit all major American cities, this triggered a full scale nuclear assault from America to China. Russia panics.......
JASMIN: (Crying) Pleease, please please please don't do it. Stop it, make it not happen. We are good, we are good, we are innocent. It is Bush, he is eveil. Don't destroy us all because of him.
ALIEN: You are confusing punishment with self defence again. I don't punish you, you punish yourselves and each other. I simply deflected a weapon that was aimed at destroying me. But perhaps you will live, since no bombs will fall on Britain while I am here. Though I am leaving now. Goodbye.
The Alien vanishes. Bombs fall from the sky and the human species is completly destroyed by itself. Dozy Dave never gets to shag Jazmin It.

Helgas

2007-01-15T16:36:00.000-08:00

In the time of the ancient greeks a Trireme of Philosophers, Poets and Visionaries set forth from Athens to found a perfect republic. They came to an Island in a perpetual fog bank and called it Helgas. There was only one crime in the republic of Helgas: ownership. The philosophers reasoned that ownership adds no value to deeds or goods. If one owns the bread one eats it tastes no better than if one steals it, meat sold nourishes neither more nor less than meat given freely, sex with a free man is a good as sex with a slave, and love between lovers is no dimmer than love between man and wife. Wild nature is as beautiful as a walled field, and the ocean is as wonderful as a private swimming pool.
Free from the tyranny of ownership, the Helgasians thrived. After two hundred years of careful love, the island became a paradise, fruit trees bore fruit all year around, wild animals jumped into the communal pots, hot and cold fountains spouted from beautiful statues in every house.
They had one law enforcer, the most beautiful woman of the island who had to rule through love with the wrath of a Mother, the violent passion of a lover, and the respect of a daughter. At the time of our story the law enforcer was named Erotica.
Erotica sat with her sandaled feet up on her tabla rasa playing with her abacus when a boy came in bearing a message.
SWEET BLOND CURLY HAIRED BOY: "Erotica! There's a man told me to tell that some ownership is going down by the Oak."
EROTICA: "Would that be a handsome rougish man with a great chest and muscle bound stomach?"
BOY: "Yes,"
EROTICA (SMILING): I'm on my way.

In the dappled sunlight under some Oaks where Pigs snuffle and lambs gambol. Erotica is making love to a handsome man on a rope swing. Their atheletic bodies move in perfect harmony and beauty and their faces are filled with beautific passion.

HANDSOME MAN : It's you, Erotica! You own my heart!
EROTICA : No one owns your heart, you are free like the glorious wild animal that you are.

SCENE THREE

Erotica is looking through the branches of a tree down on to the beach where she sees that a ship[has landed. The merchants from the ship are selling female slaves to shifty looking Helgasian men. She runs down to the beach and charges the sailors with her sword of justice twirling above her in the air. Blood sprays in big arcs as she cuts seven or eight of them to pieces in a skilful and graceful fashion. The others flee into the interior. Erotica frees the slave women.

SLAVES: Thankyou Erotica.
EROTICA: No need to thank me, I do it out of love for you my sisters. No man should own a woman, welcome to Helgas, be free!
SLAVES: Those men from the ships plan to rob the volcano, they've heard that it is stuffed with gold.
EROTICA (ASIDE). They must have heard of the great plug that plugs the vulcano! We use it to heat our water and supply energy for our homes. For technical reasons that I don't need to go into it is made from gold and encrusted with diamonds, but since we have no concept of ownership it is of no special interest to us.

SCENE FOUR.

The men from the ship are scrambling up the side of the volcano with Erotica hot on their heels. They see a great silver chain at the lip of the vulcano and start to pull at it with all their might.

EROTICA: Nooooooo! You don't need to take that plug. Come and live in Helgas and live to your full potential. I will love you all and we can live in harmony, you can pry into the depths of nature and into the deepness of your own heart. You can soar like eagles and burrow like ferrets. You can swim like eels and wallow like bottom feeders.
DESPERATE PIRATE ONE: Pah! There are no rules on your island, so I shall do as I please. I will take this plug of Gold and own many pairs of shoes, and lovely tri pods with really intricate paintings on them by famous blind tri pod makers. And I will own shields dipicting the moon and the stars with blue enamel as the sky and very clever etching work on the sun so that it is quite quite realistic. Can you with your love and freedom and beauty match such riches? I don't think so.
DESPERATE PIRATE TWO: Pah! When we get this plug up, I'm going to buy the house belonging to my brother in law, and it is just a five minute walk from the Parthenon, and lots of fashionable sophists live in that area. And I'm going to buy one of the latest chariots with horses from arabia that can run as fast as the horse belonging to Jonsibiadas who lives in one of the better districts and own three salt mines. Can you hope to compare such magnificence with silly old namby pamby self fulfilment, happiness and wisdom? I don't think so.
DESPERATE PIRATE THREE: I am hoping to use the money to start up a syndicate that lends money to enterprises involving trade with Eygypt. Spices, papyrus, that sort of thing. I was hoping to grow from there and expand into salt and olive oil. I just need an initial start up fund. How can you compare such an oportunity with your meagre offer of a healthy joyful life among a happy community of natural human beings? Pah!

EROTICA: You fools! You blind miserable fools. I will cut off your tails!

Erotica cuts the head of the third pirate while the other two draw their swords. There is a barave and wonderful battle, with Erotica looking absolutely amazing. Meanwhile the camera pans around and there are several more pirates down in the mouth of the volcano tugging and yanking away at the plug chain. The great beautiful golden diamond encrusted plug lifts slightly at one edge and bubbling red hot lava gushes out until eventually the plug is shot thousands of feet into the air by a great gush of hell fire from the centre of the fucking world. Poor Erotica and the pirates are engulphed in the liquid flame that comes pouring down the sides of the mountian. Everywhere the beautiful men women and children of Helgas a running screaming away from great waves of molten fire that consumes everything, all the beautiful free edifices and artifices of the worlds only perfect republic. The Camera moves a long way off and you see the island as a whole tilt to one side and sink down and down into the waves. Eventually all that is left is a froth of bubbles like a sauce pan of poaching eggs.
Years later an abacus washed a shore on the banks of the Nile. The only reckoning of the beautiful paradise, the garden of Eden, the perfect republic that was destroyed by the possessiveness of men.

Episode Two: Francoise Lafollie

2007-01-05T07:03:00.000-08:00

Francoise Lafollie. A Screenplay by Helga Von Porno. From a format inspired by Ultra Mahareshi Taj Mahal Ubank God.

Francoise Lafollie is sitting behind her desk in a Paris cop shop. She has a Platinum blond Afro that looks like a wig and a yellow satin mini dress. Her feet are on the desk and she is wearing roller skates. She is whittling a Voodoo doll with a flick knife. The phone rings.

Lafollie: Oui?.....Mmm hmm.........Oh la la....... Pigalle?.......... Texan terroist plot?......D'accord.

Parisian Streets. Francoise is roller skating very fast through the busy back streets of the prostitute area Pigalle. She is smoking a gulloise. She turns into an empty side street. Empty that is but for one handsome man with a five o'clock shadow.

Handsome man: Hey, beautiful girl, want some action.

Lafollie: Okay, big boy, this one is for free.

Lafollie unzips the man's jeans and takes out his oily gallic cock. He smiles. She flicks open her knife and puts it to his ball sack.

Lafollie: One false move from you and you be singing with the vienna boys. Sing true or sing falsetto. What do you know about the Texan terroists?

Man. Martigue.... Petit village....Boulongerie...

Lafollie puts her blade away and steps back. The man slaps her around the face. She pouts and stabs him in the heart. He dies.

SCENE THREE.

On the Paris to Marseille train, the fastest train in europe. Francoise Lafollie has her head out of the window and her mouth open wide, the 200mph wind sandblasting her teeth and proving that against probability her platinum blond afro is not a wig. She is just reaching orgasm. A handsome man in a naval uniform that she has know for less than twenty minutes is making love to her with great finesse inside the carriage.

Lafollie: Oui, oui, Oh la la, Oh la la, Oui OUI OUI!

Sailor: eurgh, eeeeurgh, occhchkch.

Lafollie turns back into the carriage to compliment the sailor stranger on his prowess and love making skill only to find that he has been garrotted by a large chinned man in a stetson who takes off down the corridor. Francoise steps over her dead lover and roller skates down the corrider after the Texan. she catches him in the drivers carriage.

Texan: Well, I do declare, how d'yer like, Now what is going on?

Lafollie: You are a dangerous terroist, no? Where are your bomb?

Texan: Why I oughter... Well how d'yer like that. Here! Here's my bomb.

The texan terroist takes out a round black bomb from his chaps pocket. Francoise punches him hard in the face and he falls back on the driver. Francoise opens the door to the train and jumps onto the road, landing in down hill skate pose at 200 miles per hour (perhaps use a stunt woman for this bit). She looks back to see the front carriage explode derailing the whole train that whips round like a snake and concetinas crushing all the passenger into a savoury preserve.
Francoise has by chance landed on the road to Martigue, a little town outside Marseille.
She come across a little girl. she grabs her by the lapels of her cute little school uniform and starts slapping her around the face.

Lafollie: "Ou est la boulongerie? Ou est la boloungerie? Parle! Parle! Parle!"
Little girl, in tears, very frightened pointing to the boloungerie. "La bas!"

SCENE FOUR In the Boloungerie.

Lafollie. Je Voudrais un baggette at une pain au chocolate sil vous plait monsieur.
Baker lady: Voila Madame. Merci Au revoir.
Lafollie: Merci, Au revoir.

SCENE FIVE.

Francoise roller skates around the little town eating her baggette looking very beautiful and coquettish. She passes fountains and old men in beres playing boule and winks and giggles at handsome onion sellers in breton shirts, she rollers through cobble streets and pretty squares and bridges. There is the soundtrack of tango music played on a squeeze box. This scene goes on for about forty minutes.

Francoise: Merde! I forgot all about the Texan terroists. I didn't go to the boloungerie to buy bagette, but to foil terrible Texan terroism plot to destroy French Egalite and Fraternete. I must go back.

SCENE SIX. In boulongerie. Francoise is talking to the baker lady.

Francoise: So I am actually a police trying to save France from Texan Terroists.
Lady: Mais non! You are too sexy to be a police.
Francoise: Hah, yes, I love sex. I am a registered sex addict. When I told the chief he was very happy. Until I told him that I am only addicted to sex with handsome men, not fat pigs like him!
Francoise and Lady in unison: Hoh hee hoh hee hoh!
Lady: The Texan terroists are in the back room there. Bon chance Francoise!

SCENE SEVEN. In Back room of the boloungerie.
There are three men in Stetsons polishing a great big nuclear bomb. Francoise is whittling a voodoo doll with her flick knife.
Texan Tim: Waeel Haello pretty lil lady, what can we do for you?
Francoise: Put on these hand cuffs.
Texan Pete: aren't yew a hot little sinning fornicator.
Francoise: You don't understand, I am putting you under arrest. Anything you say I will take down.
Texan Tarquin: Panties!
Texans in unison. Hurr hurr hurr hurr

Francoise does a backward high kick and brains Tarquin with her Roller skates, righting herself quickly she stabs Pete in the throat and elbows Tim in the solar plexus. Tim bends double giving her time to knee him in the face and stab him in the back of the kneck.

Francoise: Voila, another case solved!

Francoise glides back into the boloungerie through one of those many coloured partition ribonny things looking really sexy. Meanwhile, Tarquin regains consciousness and goes over to the bomb and joins two wires together. There is an enormous nuclear explosion that wipes out all life for miles around. Including the beautiful Lafollie. The camera pans across the destroyed town and comes to rest on a silhoette against a wall of a girl in a mini dress, rollerskates and Afro in mid leap. A bit of platinum hair and yellow silk blows in the wind catching a sunbeam.

Frieda Fitch: WunderKop.

2007-01-03T06:35:00.000-08:00

A Screenplay by Helga von Porno. Inspired by Ultratoshymoshywallah.

In a small village nestled among the woods outside Ingolstadt in Bavaria Inspecktor Freida Fitch sat behind her desk twiddling with a rubics cube. The phone wrang.
VOICE: "Is that you Fitch? It's me, Gunter. I think we have a case. Meet me at gate into the woods outside the village disguised as a slag in fifteen minutes and I'll give you further instructions."
FRIEDA: "Ja voll Gunter."
Frieda smiled. Gunter and her had a thing going on. It helped while away the empty proffession of village detective in the most law abiding village in the law abiding region of Bavaria.
Fifteen minutes later Gunter slide up Friedas mini skirt and pulled off her knickers. He pushed her up against a tree and she wrapped her legs around his hips.
FRIEDA: "Ach! Gunter! Ach! Aaargh! What are the instructions, what are the instructions."
For all his rough charm, Gunter was always short lived so Frieda wasn't suprised when his teeth clenched and his eyes opened wide after less than a minute. She was more suprised when he collapsed to the forest floor, bringing her down with him, a widening stain of blood on the back of his sequined Elvis shirt.
BEARDED WOODMAN WITH BIG BLOODY KNIFE: "Now it's your turn, slag kop! But not before I've finished what Mr Dead here started."
FRIEDA: "Oh no you don't! Take that!"
With her special training, Frieda sprang up and grabbed the Woodman's Beard and bit his tongue out whilst kneeing him in the bollocks. The woodman grabbed her waist and flung him far from her. Then he ran, bloody mouthed toward the village.

SCENE 3. Inside the Cab of a great big lorry full of explosives to be used for perfectly legitimate mining purposes.
FRITZ: Hey, Hans, look at all those pretty happy children playing so beautifully in that school playground situated on that bend in the road.
HANS. Yes, the look so happy and innocent.
FRITZ: Watch out. There is a bearded man with all blood coming out of his mouth running down the road.
The lorry skids, slides off the road and smashes into the playground where it explodes destroying the whole school. Little bits of children fly everywhere like a macabre snow of the wrong bit of Santas jacket.

SCENE 4.
Frieda, looking deshevelled and sexy in her slag disguise enters the village hostillry where she finds all the men of the village drinking. They all have beards. She twiddles with her rubics cube.

FRIEDA: Which one of you Bastards stabbed my partner in the back.
The men all look down at their feet.
LANDLORD: "Frieda, sweetheart, you are the last to know. Gunter was swinging both ways like a weather cock in a storm. We have all of us stabbed him in the back as you put it.

A mad frenzy grips Frieda and she grabs a Stein Glass and one by one kills everyman in the house. Just as she is smashing the last old man's teeth in a hand comes up from behing her and stabs her in the back.

Bearded Wooodman: Harr harr harr! Wunderbar! Gurgle spit. (mouth still full of tongue blood).
Frieda: "Ha! You didn't notice my special issue stab proof slag braz. I am completely unharmed.
Frieda bashes the bearded woodman to death and he joins the pile of bearded corpses.

FRIEDA. Another case solved.

Just then all the women enter the house screaming with fury. They see their men dead, like their children and rush at Frieda. They have incidently been practicing for the cabaret so they are all dressed in stockings and suspenders. In the confusion they all tear each other apart including Frieda. Only one woman is left standing, but just then an Anvil that was suspended from the ceiling decoratively falls down and smites her dead.
A plastic bag blows throught this village of death where not one person remains alive.

THE END.

Herbert and the Ice Queen

2006-12-22T15:24:00.000-08:00

Herbert strolled across the meadow with melancholy in his heart and sat down beneath an old willow tree, took out his lute and began to play the sadness of his heart. The sadness was so sad that the singing birds stopped singing and flew far away. The sky turned from blue to milky bruisey grey. The trees and grass crackled with frost like cut glass. Dawn approached dust and dust approached dawn like dancers in a square.
Herbert looked up to the hill where the Ice Queen stood stock still surveying the grey and dismal veil with unblinking stare. He had never seen such a statue of beauty so cold and austere.
He went up to her and greeted her grinning. "Hello maid, and what a beautiful maid you are." He tried.
She turned to him from her neck like an owl. She leveled her gaze on him. Placid, yet unforgiving.
Herbert was great at staring people out. At bard school he never was forced to look away or giggle. But he found his cheeks grew rosy and his feet needed visual attention.
Wheresoever he looked there was Spring but as the Ice Queen's gaze followed winter layed over.
"Happy Christmas!" He tried, and danced a gay jig.
Such uncompromising scorn had never been implied so explicitly as by the Ice Queen's silent response.
"I know, I will throw you a party, we'll have a great big fire and lots of lovely local folk, that should break the ice......"
Herbert's voice trailed off. The Ice Queen's cold blue eyes told you easily what foolishness this was.
Herbert disappeared into the wood. I watched him go. For I am the Ice Queen. I turned back to the vale and poured ice over the world with my steady impenetrable stare. In the periphery I knew there was colour and warmth in the world, but wherever I looked was ice and death and solid cold.
Herbert returned with local folk. The area was anarchist. The people of the wood were free. There were Bodgers and love makers, jugglers and drug takers, nude dancers and vegetarian cooks, singers and ranters story tellers and rugby teams, all manner of musicians bearing bassoons clutching cellos garroting guitars and banging banjos. It was a jolly jamboree and the fire grew higher and higher. But whenever the Ice Queen turned her gaze to the fire it smouldered sputtered and went out. Jugglers dropped their balls, Bodgers bungeld their chair legs, cellists snapped their bows and the organ grinder ground to a halt. Herbert wrang his hands and wondered how to melt the Ice Queen's heart.
Shouting came from the woods and a phalanx of Fascists appeared in formation. They destested freedom and battered the free folk in a disciplined and ordered fashion. They took them screaming and struggling to pre prepared pits in the wood, slit their throats and threw them in big open graves. The anarchists resisted, but only Herbert knew how. He drew his sword and sliced and slashed and slew and wounded and gashed and fucked up badly fascists who came near the Ice Queen. But his heroism didn't break her Ice. He got drawn into the melee, called to arms by a hurdy gurdy player.
A big black brute of a fascist set his maliscious attention on the Ice Queen. "I'm going to take the frosty wench!" He anounced and stided towards her like a walking tree.
A little boy, the son of a nudist, ran in between the Ice Queen and the Fascist giant. "Don't you hurt the pretty lady!" He squeeked at the fascist, and stabbed a stake knife into the fascists foot.
"Arrrrrgh!" went the fascist clutching his foot and hopping. "Right, you little bastard!" He growled, and brought his Axe down on the little boys head and cut him in two.
As the two little arms twitched their last in a bath of gore, and incredible thing happened, The Ice queen began to thaw!
It started in the corners of her eyes. Two springs bubbled up cutting streams down her icey cheeks. Then her heart glowed red with fury and fire lashed from her tongue. She screetched and screachy scream blast of fire and a great heat of fury poured from her like she was a pillar of flame and vengeful rage.
The fascists singed and recinded recoiled and retreated defeated.
The sun rose rosey rose and streams gushed from the mountainside and birds returned and sang their silly songs of love.
I collapsed back in the leaves and gazed teary eyed into the deep blue sky.

Absolute Truth

2006-12-16T07:10:00.000-08:00

So much has happened. Cuthbert got a bullet wound to his stomach. Two of the new psychologists had medical degrees and we decided to treat him ourselves. We knew he had no chance to live, so we thought we might as well make use of this opportunity to strap a dying man into the thought amplifier. Christ save us all. I can't go into the horror, the collapse of safety. All I can tell you is that death is real. Two just dropped dead as their souls got sucked into the wailing apparatus. The others arrested on charges of murder and manslaughter. That chapter in the broadening of human understanding has closed and thank God we are plunged back into the soft and comforting darkness of ignorance. Only I managed to escape capture by the police. I jumped out of a window and fractured my arm. The others only knew me as Helga Von Porno anyway and there is no real record of my existence. And besides, they are all probably insane and ranting about blue pain and the great green light and other stuff the police won't be able to spell.
All I had was an ankle length white fur coat, a black mini dress and fur lined boots. I bunked the train to Leuchars and walked to St Andrews. My arm hurt like hell, and everything looked like hell, the wind battering the streets, faces tight with anguish and personal misery, rain and hail punishing the scurrying population. I had a paper to give to the Philosophy department on absolute truth in a weeks time. They paid for my lodgings in a bed and breakfast. I got into my room and lay back on the bed. I thought deeply and intensely about the truth. I was elevated by pain, loss and despair. I lay there til the next day when I emmerged to eat my breakfast. The Land Lord put his hand on my hip while his wife was in the kitchen. I punched him in the eye with my bad arm and the pain made me cry. I returned to my room and dissolved into pure thought.
The details are unimportant, but the train of thought is this, if you want to know something, then you don't know it. If you know something, then you don't want to know it. Move around a few symbols and you can know everything by wanting nothing. Of course, wanting nothing is not so easy. I lay motionless for seven days without food or water. I knew everything. The limit of my knowledge and the limit of the world was the same.
So lost was I that my physical location and embodiment became irrelevant, just another thing I didn't want to know. I found myself standing naked, the North sea lapping around the tops of my thighs. Looking out into the night, the wind howling, the rain whipping, the electric cold pain through me like a charge from the core of the world. I was connected and screaming. I wanted nothing and knew everything.
A Handsome man in an Aryan Jumper hailed me from the shore. I later found out he was called Mark. He waded out into the bitter sea and put his coat round my shoulders and took me in. He took me to his home and fed me warm tea and whisky. I could not answer his questions because my lips were too cold. He took me to his bed and held me close and tight. He held me as if he loved me, as if somebody loved me, as if someone wanted to sheild me from the horror of infinite knowledge. Desire awakened in me, and with it ignorance. I wanted to know this man, I wanted to know what he thought about me, I wanted to know what he would do if I kissed him, if I stroked his chest with my hand and slide it down to his belly. I wanted to know how it would feel if he were to make love to me, if we could make a connection, if I would be filled with love. Ignorance is bliss.

Hollow

2006-10-13T00:48:00.000-07:00

We, the new psychologists, found a sympathetic group of philosophers in Scotland. No psychology or psychiatry department would accept dualism or the existence of disembodied spirits, dogmatic fools.
Clarke has been imprisoned for corrupting the youth so we are on our own now. Cuthbert, Herbert, Damian, Alexander and I went up to Scotland to demonstrate the thought amplifier to the dualists there. We need LSD and therefore needed to deal with street people. The others, who constantly joke that I am a Chav, damn their priveledged eyes, allowed me to negotiate the purchase of a bottle of LSD.
The supplier found his role romantic and had romanticised his persona. He thought of himself as a kind of Rob Roy and wore a three cornered hat and a bearskin coat. Spotting Cuthbert's outrageous accent as soon as he walked in the pub he called us collectively "Sassenachs" saying that he hated us.
"I hate the English too, " I smouldered, "They've beaten my country in two world wars, flattening cities and killing innocent women and children. If it wasn't for those pesky English bastards, europe would be German now, and free from genetic illness and degenerates. So we are on the same side, brother Scot."
I could see Rabbie (the acid dealers name) was wrong footed. On one hand he was wanting to impress me for sexual reasons, but on the other hand, he wanted to distance himself from geneticide.
The romantic fool had us meet in the middle of Loch Lomond. O the romance of the freezing cold dampness. Everything was black, the water, the sky, the creaky rowing boat. I sat with my hands in my armpits looking out into the silvered blackness. Cuthbert rowed, and the others whined.
Rabbie emmerged out of the blackness underlit with one foot on the prow. The poser, he looked most impressive. He did a windmill pirrouette and passed the little glass bottle over. Damian threw him a leather wallet containing £4 000 and he snapped out the torch and vanished. I blessed his theatrics, the twat.
We rowed toward shore for about half an hour when we heard shouting from our broadside. Then shooting. We were under attack. The new psychologists grovelled and wept in the bilge. I stood tall.
Bullets hit my body and bounced off, making a pinging tin sound, like a dust bin round pound. A bullet hit my cheek and I felt nothing. No tear, fear hair tare hare ta ra ta ta.
The boat started sinking, the brats wailing, the bullets out of blackness assailing, failing to stop misstress metallic (me).
The ship was sank but I stood tall, head below the waves, feet dancing on fishes graves, and those snivelling chav dispisers clung to me, and I dragged them along with my strength, bullets bouncing off me. They clung to my arms, they clung to my legs and I dragged them out of there, under fire, riptide tugging me under, like Moby Dick dragging harpoon boats. I emmerged head first like being born, like a sea monster with five manly limbs swaying in the current, Cuthbert bleeding from a bullet wound. I strode on unstoppable like a low geared machine. Like a vice.
I dragged them up the weedy beach and they lay panting, shaking weeping ingrates. I strode on mechanical, straight as a crow, up the bank, middle of the road. To the hotel.
In my room I looked in the mirror above the sink. I itched the side of my head and felt a hinge. I felt the other side and there was a clasp below my ear, another below my armpit, and another on my hip.
I undid the clasps and my body and face swung open. I was hollow. I am made of metal, and am hollow. There is nothing inside. Bullets can't penetrate into that emptiness within. And nor can you. I am hollow. I am filled with nothing. There is nothing inside. And nothing is sacred. I am hollow. Iron clad emptiness.

A brief history of the Chav

2006-10-05T07:38:00.000-07:00

One thing I like about the English is they don’t have a disparaging contemptuous word for the poor and the working class. Scottish have “Scheemy” Irish have “Tinker” Americans have hundred of words, many racist, “Mexican” “Nigger” “White trash” (the implication of this last is that if you are not white, then you are trash by definition). The English on the other hand have always had a great admiration for the working class and a great compassion for the poor. But sadly this has recently changed. The middle classes and the media have a new word “chav”. Middle class English excitedly explain to American aquaintances that chav means white trash, and that, as well burgers and blockbuster movies, the English have adopted the American contempt for the poor.
So to mourn the passing of this great English trait, I am writing a history of the Chav.

12th Century
Under the tyrannous reign of King John, many Chavs unable to earn an honest wage because of excessive taxes took to banditry in the woods. The most famous of these was Robin Chav, whose slogan was “Rob from the rich and give to the poor”.
16th Century Elisabeth 1st commissioned ship loads of Chavs to rob the Spanish. She knighted Francis Chav, one of the better captains. A Chav playwright William Shakespeare wrote the best plays ever written.
17 Century
Perhaps the century of the Chav. For a brief period England had a Chav ruler, Oliver Cromwell and his model army of Chavs. For the first time in history, the world got a taste of Chav soldiery. It was around this time that many Chavs learned to read.
18 Century.
A chav named Nelson worked his way up the ranks in the British Navy and dominated the seven seas making Britain the greatest sea power in the world.
19 Century
The Tolpuddle Chavs were deported for forming a trade union. London welcomes Karl Marx, the middleclass German Chav spokesman. The English Chavs think him too extreme. Chav children are sent down mines to work for 14 hours a day for a pittance. Chavs exert political influence on parliament to ban child labour. Slavery is banned from the British Empire.
20 Century.
Chavs are sent to war against the Germans and die in millions for the bosses. When they return victorious, the bosses cut their pay and make many redundant. They try and organise a general strike, and Winston Churchill, arch enemy of chavs, arms the police to quell them. Chavs finally are allowed to vote.
1940s
The next generation of Chavs are sent to war again. Winston Churchill allows chavs to get bombed in Coventry and London and Liverpool for tactical advantage. In return, Churchill bombs German Chavettes and baby chavs. A gay chav genius invents the computer, but is driven to suicide by homophobic harassment from the middle classes.
1950s.
Wave of immigration of black people. Chavs welcome black people, sharing their music and working side by side. Middle classes keep black people out of their jobs and residential areas. Chavs in port towns like Liverpool and London embrace rock’n’roll and adopt west Indian and American music influences.
1960s
Chavs invent their own music with black influences. The chav band “the beatles” write the best pop music in the world. Chavs try and over throw old middleclass world order and create a freer more tolerant society. Chavistic principles include peace, love and freedom.
1970s
Chavs become negative, chavs are by now well educated since they have been granted free education. Chavs begin to experiment with drugs. The chav band “the sex pistols” are more aggressively assertive about chav rights than ever before.
1980s
Chavs discover ecstacy and Chicago dance music. Also heroine becomes epidemic as many chavs live in substandard housing.
1990s
Chavs lose right to free education. Chavs take to streets in mass demonstrations over the chav tax, and over cars and global capitalism. Chavs try and influence markets by selective shopping. New laws prohibit chavs from assembling.
21st century.
Demonstrations increase and become global. Looks like chavs might finally rule the world. Then twin towers are hit by aeroplanes and everything changes. The bosses fight back with new police powers. In Britain chavs can be arrested without charge, or for “anti social behaviour”. Chavs are denied access to further education. The term Chav is coined and the press constantly use it as a disparaging term.

Polygyny and Polyandry

2006-09-13T05:00:00.000-07:00

Here's the kind of self serving pseudo science these swaggering struckoff psychiatrists put forward: Human beings are polygynous, meaning that men get to fuck around while women are naturally faithful. These pompous dim wits also mix up the discriptive claim with the normative one, concluding that women should be faithful to one man while he should cheat on her. The evidence is that men have a slightly more muscular upper body than women, which is ideally evolved for shouldering jealous husbands out of the way. The other argument is that men can impregnate thousands of women a year, whereas an unfaithful woman can only get pregnant once, so a woman may as well stick to one man, and in all fairness shouldn't complain if he is fucking half of slovenia in maraud, since she has got her teaspoon full of hairy chested aggressive genes, and that's all she needs.

The other conceit, (Miller 2000, Dawkins 2004) is that the human mind evolved through mate choice, and essentially this means that Genghis Kahn managed to impregnate every other Turkish woman because they loved his vocabulary size and his ability to make disperate logical connections. This would predict that men are much cleverer than women, and evidence to the contrary is explained by the hypothesis that women's brains grew parallel so that they would be able to work out which men were cleverer, and know when to laugh at their jokes and nod appreciatively at their astounding metaphysics, and thereby decide who should impregnate them so that they can give birth to the next generation of Woody Alans and Einsteins.

But here is where I present my argument for Polyandry: the theory that it is men who are faithful and women who have many mates, a male harem.
The idea is to look at the best strategy for an evolving woman.
1. Be faithful to some big swank who is also fucking hundreds of other women. Result: Have 12 bastard children all with the same absent Father and all inheriting the same genetic weakness of that one man. Prediction: Many of the children will die before reaching maturity, since 1. They don't have the protection of the Father. 2. they are likely to have near identical immune systems, so a single virus could wipe out the whole batch
2. Have 12 babies by 12 successive men, all chosen for their romantic hearts and their faithfulness and loyalty, (and hell, why not thrown in cock size, bank account and sense of humour). Result: 12 off spring who are much more likely to reach maturity as each have the protection of a good father, and each are likely to have different immune systems so a greater joint resistence.
Therefore there will be a strong evolutionary pressure for men to be kind, romantic and faithful, with big cocks and senses of humour, while women should fuck around as much as possible. In conclusion, human beings are polyandrous.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Also it means womens minds will have evolved to keep their Harem sweet, and keep each of the men faithful. Evidence, many husbands think they are the fathers of other men's children.
HVP

The Real Psychologists.

2006-09-12T06:03:00.000-07:00

A few of us have taken to meeting upstairs in what must have been a ball room in this old Victorian mock Tudor house. There are leather armchairs and chess tables scattered around and a grand Piano in the corner. We feel ourselves to above the saturnalia down stairs which has degenerated into little more than a bestial romp. Last night, for example, a man of no scientific credentials fucked a goat in the orgone generator while his mate (literally, they drove a removals van together for a living) sat in the thought amplifier drinking lager. No one even bothered to record the results. We feel that these are symptomatic of the wider grip that Materialism has on the Zeitgheist. The general public are attracted by sex and drugs as vices, showing little interest in the amazing revolution of thought that is going on.

There are about eight of us, I am marked out doubly as being the only woman, and the only member without a degree in psychiatry from the institute. We call ourselves the "Real Psychologists" proudly boasting that we study thought, rather than brains and behaviour. And we dispense pure love and psychic energy, rather than drugs and lobotomy.

There is a bit of a dress code as well. We all where black suits that button up to the neck and smoke pipes. Rudolph plays the piano, Cuthbert is a demon at chess, but mostly we discuss evolutionary psychology and the amazing implications of Clarkes work. I think there is a little jealousy directed toward me as I am clearly Clarke's favourite, and because I give off 100 times the lebidinous energy of a randomly sampled human being. I am a kind of freak, and lebidinous genius. Clarke himself is the second highest, but he only gives off 25 fold.

The jealousy manifests in the direction of their thought. They keep coming up with dubious evolutionary arguments for why it is that men are superior to women, or that women are naturally subserviant to men.

There is an undercurrent of subversion against Clarke. It is whispered that he is becoming a "Sensationalist". It is true that he is trying to hire out big music venues in which to demonstrate his Orgone generator and thought collecting apparatus. The events are not even being billed as science, but as entertainment. He is experiencing some difficulty in obtaining licences, especially when the authorities learn that he wants to use schizophrenics in conjunction with live sexual intercourse.

I too am suspicious of the path Clarke seems to be treading. It is undeniable that his discovery is genius and of great import. But he seems to be inspired by Mammon, and the love of money is at the root of his endeavour. Even his love for me, which I can't deny is real, is but an instrument to his of self agrandisement.

HVP RP signing off

The Bromley set

2006-09-11T12:49:00.000-07:00

The Bromley house has become a gathering place for Clarke's followers and free thinkers who are suffocated by the strangle hold the physicalists have got on mainstream psychiatry and psychology. The absurd claim that there is nothing more to this universe than atoms in the void has become as stiffling and inhibiting to science as catholicism once was.
The Bromley house on a Friday night will see scientists breathing the air of freedom, experimenting with the Orgone generator and the thought gatherer. The genius Clarke has developed a technique for measuring the frequency of thoughts through the silver cable. This in effect is a measurement of the lebidinous energy given off by whatever practice is being enacted in the orgone generator. A man and woman in love in coitus gives off ten times as much lebidinous energy as sodomizing homosexual men, but only ten percent more than kissing lesbians. It was found that a mother breast feeding an infant gives off very little, whereas friends playing imaginative games gives off as much as heterosexual coitus between lovers. I qualify with "lovers" because in one remarkable experiment, a man and a woman who professed no attraction to one another were given various sex aids and instructed to fuck each other.
The lebidnous energy level was lower than of a sole wanking man. Experiments of more dubious value had extravagantly beautiful whores having sex with the experiment designers in a rainbow of varying costumes and poses.
There were interesting variables on the chair too. Drug virgin Schizophrenics were in short supply and so there was plenty of room to see if voice hearing in the chair could be induced in normal patients. Cocaine was found to be effective, as was excstacy, LSD and puff. So on a Friday night, there would be a live sex show with various interesting couplings and charlie, acid and e being consumed. I gather not every one was there out of purely scientific interest. Sometimes it was hard to get through the door.

Reserch assistant post

2006-09-04T14:21:00.000-07:00

Doctor Philip Clarke gained a respectable PhD in psychiatry and behavioural genetics from the Maudsley hospital but then after publishing a series of remarkable papers on schizophrenia fell into disrepute. His references to the Tibetan book of the Dead and the banned works on Orgone by the discredited Reich earned him the ridicule and contempt of the London Psychiatric community. He was eventually struck off the register after allegations of bad practice. He openly:
1. Encouraged, and even ordered Schizophrenic patients to stop taking medication.
2. Told Schizophrenic patients that the voices in their heads were real and that they were the voices of the spirits of the dead.
3. Performed sex acts with undergraduates as part of his “research”.

He soon found alternative financial backing from various private sources to continue his research. These included many of his former students and patients and the families of his patients who were in awe of the transformation in their erstwhile suffering relatives. Meanwhile he stole a list of diagnosed schizophrenics from the database.

He contacted me after hearing of my unique talents and offered me the position of Research Assistant. Because of the unusually intimate nature of the work, the remuneration was motivation enough in and of itself. I was to be paid £500 an hour in unmarked bills, with the only proviso being that I should do exactly as he commanded.

I was instructed to turn up at an address in Bromley wearing a pair of sky blue knickers, and pair of sky blue stiletto heels and a white lab coat. (Blue is the colour of Orgone). I was instructed to fetch a “drug virgin” (This is Dr Clarke’s term for a schizophrenic who has not received any anti psychotic medicine). I will call the subject Andrew X. Andrew X was ideally suited in that he had consistently refused medication, and already believed that his voices were the voices of disembodied spirits. Andrew came willingly, but Clarke had given me an electric prod in case Andrew became difficult.

I am aware that people read this blog principally for entertainment, so I will keep the science to a minimum. Clarke’s theory is that there is a mental dimension where thoughts exist without extension. These thoughts can be directly perceived through “inspiration”, however, this requires a special sensitivity. Disturbances in the dopaminergic system can cause a super sensitivity to disembodied thoughts. The dopaminergic system is also indicated in sexual arousal. Clarke’s bold theory is that the brain cannot create thoughts alone but creates libidinous energy in the dopaminergic system that allows thoughts to interact with the physical realm. In conception in lovemaking the lovers give off waves of libidinous energy and this attracts disembodied thoughts. When a human is conceived its soul is attracted by the love making of the parents. This is why in the Tibetan book of the Dead, to avoid reincarnation, the dead are counselled to avoid the attractiveness of lovers. Clarke was struck by the persistence of schizophrenia in our gene pool. He hypothesized that schizophrenics had a special talent, an extra sense, contrary to the mainstream view that schizophrenia was an illness and a deficit. “In the valley of the blind, the one eyed man is detained for his own safety and the safety of others,” Dr Clarke was fond of saying. His genius was to invent a device that could amplify the voices of the spirits through manipulating libidinous energy. He needed drug virgins because taking anti psychotic medicine was akin to pouring vinegar into your eyes.

When I arrived with Andrew, Dr Clarke, a handsome, clean shaven man of about forty, greeted me and helped me strap Andrew into the listening chair. His arms were strapped to the arm rests and his legs manacled to the base. A padded iron hoop latched around his neck, and a black net like helmet was attached to his head with suckers latching on to various areas of his skull. Andrew had a clean shaven head, and “Bromham” tattooed on his neck, for reasons only known to himself. In the middle of the helmet was a female socket into which a large male socket was screwed. From this came a solid silver cable as thick as an erect penis. The other end of the cable was attached to the top of the orgone generator, a box shaped like a wardrobe made of glass tinted blue. From the inside ceiling of the Orgone generator dangled a forest of human hair.

“Ms Von Porno, step inside the Orgone generator.” Said Dr Clarke. His voice had a timbre that send a thrill through me. I was acutely aware of my nakedness beneath the lab coat. I felt his authority like an embrace. It was wonderful to have the opportunity to assist this genius in his research. I stood in the Orgone generator with my back to Andrew, who was struggling against his bonds, wailing and shouting in myriad strangulated voices. The Handsome Dr Clarke looked intensely into my face and began to unbutton my coat. Our breaths quickened and became heavy and I felt a deliscious warm weakness creep up though my inner thighs my belly and my breasts. He pulled away my knickers. He lifted me by the hips and pushed me back against the glass. I held his skull between my hands and pulled his face between my breast. His beautiful brain held in my hands. He breathed in my odour in big snuffles. He lifted his lips to mine and we were making love. What a privilege to be taken by a passionate scientist and I could feel his passion. I gasped and cried out. I looked into his eyes, his pupils expanding and contracting like two black holes giving birth to the universe. I left my body and floated disembodied above the room. I could see Andrew wailing and shouting strange incoherent things. I could see me and the doctor making love so beautifully, my cheeks buttocks and breasts were flushed bright pink. I was not alone. The room was filled with thoughts, ideas, disembodied minds. Do not picture them, for they were imperceptible. I was aware of them like I am aware of my own thoughts. But they were located in a swarm around the Orgone generator. They were attracted to our wonderful passionate sex, our mingling beauty. I was too and drifted toward us. I was aware of them floating into the orgone generator and being sucked up into the electric cable and being channelled straight into Andrew’s brain.
I was the cable.
I was everywhere and no where.
I was here again as alleles and chromosomes imploded into my belly with the force of a dual orgasm and I was filled with pieces of information that had been preserved for a hundred thousand years, genetic code that had made this handsome genius was rushing to seek mine.

He kissed me tenderly and brushed a tear from my cheek with the back of his hand. “You are beautiful, so beautiful, Helga, so sexy and so beautiful,” He said, his lips quivering with passion.
I smouldered back at him through brim of tears and said nothing.

I buttoned up my lab coat and got back to work. We had recorded everything that Andrew had said on a dictophone and had encouraged him to shout out loud whatever the voices were saying to him.

“Felix! Felix Westowe. I am Felix Westowe. Hand back the books, please, return the booooooks!” He was shouting.

“What books?” I said.

“Library books.” Said Andrew. “I died suddenly and couldn’t return the books.”

“Where are the books?” Asked Dr Clarke.

“In the attic. There is a desk….Bottom left door…..three volumes…..Origin of the Species….A Tale of Two Cities……The Communist Manifesto….”

The Doctor took my hand and led me up the stairs. We could feel each others minds and the driving need of the ghost. We knew where to go.

“Keep libidinous,” Whispered Clarke, “It is easy for me, I have never felt this way for anyone before, I love you in a deeply physical way, we must keep giving off the libidinous energy so we can be guided by Felix Westowe”

My heart was beating and I was in love, I could feel the urgency of the ghost. He swept us off our feet. We rushed into the attic, where we knew he used to live, a bachelor, and read great works at this little desk in the corner, drinking bovril and smoking capstons late into the night. We knew this through inspiration. There in the draw, dusty with age, were the three books. The return date was 11th of September 1936!

Spurned on by the ghost, we ran, holding hands like lovers, to the old town library.

The librarian was most helpful. He found the old records and found that Felix Westowe had taken out three books every week for 26 years and have never had a fine for a late return. That was until the eleventh of September 1936, when he failed to return the three books we held in our hands.

The librarian then informed us that we owed £430 547.76p in unpaid fines. Dr Clarke took out his cheque book and paid in full. We felt the ghost’s spirit fade and melt away like a drop in the ocean.

Poor Felix Westowe had been a fastidious man who made sure everything was in order. His desk, we discovered, contained a ledger book that detailed his daily expenditure to the last farthing. Even a sudden unexpected death couldn’t prevent him from returning his library books, if it delayed him somewhat.

Doctor Clarke paid me £4 000 in cash and mumbled his thanks. I got the 19.04 train into London Bridge and got the Northern line from there, purchasing a copy of the evening standard from the Sainsburies on Camden road and a loaf of bread some sausages and a pint of milk. The bill came to £3.79.

The Call of the Swan

2006-08-29T02:49:00.000-07:00

I was plagued by erotic dreams last night, dreams of a savage animalist nature. I rode piggy back on goat men, wrestled with snakes got hugged by bears and mounted by lions. I woke again and again with hot belly, and blood screaming, attempting to gentle my raging body with my hands, but just worsening the fever. I poured water on the coals but it just intensified the heat like in a sauna.
I got up and walked across to the full length mirror I stared into my face and naked white body. I felt my breasts with my hands in an erotic trance and gazed into my own eyes in a rising helpless horror. There was a cracking sound like breaking ice and hair grew from my gentle cheeks, a fire grew in my eyes, turning them from blue to yellow. The fire in my belly bucked my spine like bellows, my mouth gaping wide my toungue lolling, I bent forward on all fours, my tongue became engorged, the cracking continued, I was massaging my breasts involuntarily, the feeling was lustful and compulsive. I looked down to my arms and horror of horrors they were thin and grey and hairy and terminated in clawed stumps pawing at my breasts scratching them and drawing blood. My mind was changing, I was losing sense of time and place, I tried to cry out, but howled instead. My sternum pushed out forwards and hairs sprouted all over my body. All I can remember now was my consciousness rushing down a channel that was filled with strong lustful drives, awesome currents ungoverned by reason.

I awoke in the pink dawn covered in white feathers and splashes of red blood. I was naked and sated, a feeling of ravashed pleasure mixed with revulsion and loathing. I was in the park by the ornamental pond. By my side was a dead swan, it's white neck throttled and punctured by scarlet fang wounds. The swan's neck lay spent and limp, its one upward eye blankly accusing the sky.

The fog clears

2006-08-25T00:44:00.000-07:00

Lurching out of God knows where we tottered down cobbled streets of East London, through a swirling conundrum of fog, newspaper sheets flying like jelly fish and pressing against our legs and faces, old men moaning like the dead in needle bottle doorways. Our faces pale as ghost's, all the red had been sucked out of Timothy's face into her eyes that glared through the pre dawn gloom like the undead, lipstick smeared across her mouth like gazelle gore on a lion's.
With the silent collusion of the Zombie, hands on the moss slimey wall, we descended some steps into a man made gully of Thames smoothed stone and slime. Out of the mist like a vision the furtive cockle boat became saliant by degree, I hoisted the slimey rope and Timothy got in, me launching after her we drifted with an initial sloop into the out going tide....East...toward where the sun rises, to save us from this pall.
Grey mounds of whale humps and more fiercesome creatures rose from the waters surface like back boils on a corpse. From the distant banks we could hear screams of murder victims, police sirens and discontented rioting. We loomed near to a building on fire, with grim angry teenagers standing around with petrol cans. This pall must end.
Timothy wordlessly smoked while I oared on....East....East....East
We passed derelict docks and an obsolete battleship, a corpse of a woman floated past with one arm oddly aloft: a final wave goodbye to a world that didn't wave back. Timothy tipped ash into her vacant eye socket.
The sea started rising, rebelling, overthrowing, exploding....the emetic that covers over half the globe. It drew us in to a rolacoaster revolution, spiraling faster and faster out of control, til we were rotating round a fixed orbit, a great gaping wound in the sea, a worm hole the size of a planet, a walled abyss of grimy shattered mirrors. Timothy's pipe blew out and flew out of her mouth, her hair blowing fierce across her white face, mouth gaping open in rigid fearful dispair, only her red eyes burning with hateful life.
My heart shone in side me like a cord to the almighty. I was strangely elated. This must be the end. My scalp opened up and I felt at one with this fierce fierce flurry. I stood up in the tiny boat, now horizontal round the whirling wall of death, and looked down into the deep deep hole.
Resplendant! Glorious! Supreme! All perfection, all knowing, all existing, all being, all powerful light, light, white glorious warming life giving light. Here in the eastern ocean we had found what we were looking for, the whirlpool where the sun rises out of the sea. O! great nutritious egg yoke! O! burning raging fire of Father's pride! O! warm nurturing womb of the world! I love you sun! I love you sun! O glory be to the sun! Belos! Belos! Belos!
The grey ocean was reavealed as a dazzling vid screen carpet of purple and orange green and electric blue, maid blush, apple greenside, lip red, vulva pink, snake grey, pub sunset window orange, all life in all its glorious colour revealed by the lovely lovely lovely sun.
Timothy lay back in the front her eyes reflecting the sky, her cheeks pinked like a slapped baby.
We bobbed peacefully and I rowed us home, London transformed into the most beautiful city on earth. The beasts of the night crawled underground to escape the watchful ever present eye of the magnificent sun

Geld

2006-08-23T02:30:00.000-07:00

It has become unadvoidable to air my socio-economic laundry due to the mamonomic ravishes of my "friend" Timothy. She invited me to stay at her ex council flat in Camden and suggested that I sign on the dole and claim housing benefit. This is when it dawned on me that I am an illegal immigrant. I always thought of myself as entitled to live in England and superior to those "illegal immigrants". A dirty starvling crowd smuggling in by bandits in submarines and luggage compartments and container lorries. When I first came to Britain I was under the so called protection of my junky grandmother and presumed that we were legitimate. I naturally thought that if this glamourous jaded adult said it was ok, then it was ok. What a fool to trust this mad ranting old hag when she was sending me out to work from our squat home and then sending me out to score scag from indiginous white folk to feed her insane addiction.
Now I was broke and homeless and Timothy was demanding rent. "It's easy, just sign on, I'll charge you a big wack of rent, like £900 a month. I'll write out the contract and everything, and we'll go halves."
It took me five hours to discover that I could not sign on, I was not allowed to stay in this country and that I was in danger of being sent back to Germany where my parents were murdered. Is it just me who sometimes feels like their blood is filled with iron filings?
I had still been seeing the flop haired fop once a week, and that was getting me fifty pounds. I didn't really mind, I quite fancied him, but the whole thing had gone really weird and he hates and dispises me now and is so angry with me for whoring around I often come out of there crying and spend three days money on getting drunk.
Since I couldn't sign on Timothy started really having ago at me. She had it in her head that I owed her £450 a month. I thought she was my friend and was helping me out. I said I had no money and told her the deal with Flop haired Fop. "You've got to go there every night, Helga, that'll be £350, then you've just got to make up £100, you can probly get that on the rob."
So now Timothy was making me cry as well. I'm alone in this world.
So now Timothy hatched this scheme. I'd butter up flop haired fop, work out his movements, get a key cut, and she'd hire a removal truck. We’d go in there one night and take every single bloody thing. Then go up to Chiswick and sell it at the car boot. That would be September’s rent covered.

Fuck Timothy

Moth Shadow

2006-07-31T14:41:00.000-07:00

Last night a moth battered into my face and woke me up. I went to kill it but stopped myself. It was the most beautiful silver grey thing , it had silver wings! And inquring red eyes that sought me out desperately as if it was reaching out to me, trying to tell me some desperate message from the moth kingdom, trying with all its might to understand this world with its myriad moons. I decided to let it live and lay back luxuriating in my magnanimity. What a goddess I am, and so munificent in my compassion to let this beautiful creature live when I could so easily smite it into a silver puff of powder.

My attention turned to the right, and the moth flew, plaintive eye storks forward, directly into my eyeball at a sufficient speed to perish on impact. My eye was filled with exquisite moth. I went over to the mirror and looked at myself.

My left eye was underscored with a smudge of silvery Kohl. My pupils shone like the moon.

Girlfriend

2006-07-27T14:39:00.000-07:00

She came down from the road onto the canal by shinning down a tree, monkey leaping onto the bridge ledge were she dangled fully extended by her finger tips and dropped down on her feet into a tiger crouch. I had been feeling uncommonly alone that evening, my companions no more a part of me than the cool paving slabs. She had clam diggers on and red trainers, and her hair was jet black cut like a street urchin, or like that actress out of breakfast at tiffanies (It wasn't Tiffany, I'm pretty sure of tat). She had no adornments to detract from her level bright gaze and playful grin.
"I'm Helga!" I said shyly and extended my hand.
"Come on!" She said and we jogged off down the canal.
"Are you my friend?" I asked, perhaps awkwardly, but I thought I might as well get straight down to the experiment.
"I sure am!" She said, and I've got a memory of her slapping her thigh, but it must be a false memory.
We came across a couple of bikes chained to a drain pipe. "We'll have those for a start!" She said and took out a little leather tool wallet and syringed some acid into the lock that preceded to open like a flower. I was horrified and appalled, I hate bike thiefs, when my bike was stolen I spent forty nights dreaming of the horrible torture and moral castigation I would inflict on the evil perpertrators. But I guess when you have a friend you have to lay aside your personal value system for the sake of the friendship. She could see me hesitating, and said. "Don't worry, we'll put them back."
Off we rode down the canal, and I tell you I was excited. To have a female friend! What glory! She hadn't told me her name yet, but what is name between friends.
We terminated our ride up by Hackney where my friend told me to pass the bike over to her. She then swapped the two bikes for a bag of crack with some weasely little boy with acne. She wasted no time loading up a pipe and smoking.
"Right, lets go!" She said.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Timothy" she said.
I looked at her.
"Yeah, I know it's a boys name, but that's because i always wanted to be a boy. I like climbing trees and fighting and shop lifting and al sorts, I never had much time for girls, blah blah blah...."
She didn't actually say "Blah blah blah.." but she actually carried on talking for about an hour with out pausing.
Well, so she was a Tom boy, but I suppose its like a gateway to having a proper female friend.
After she got to her expulsion from the public school she attended as a teenager, we ended up cack in Camden and emmerged from the canal up onto the street.

A couple of huge black men were standing outside a shop and when we walked past one of them shouted "Gotcha, you little snipe, where's my money?" Meanwhile he grabbed Timothy by the upper forearm.

I leaped up on his back, and gripping the fat of his torso with my thighs I clonked him two handed on the back of his head. I leaped off as he released Timothy and span round. I scissored his legs way from under him and he fell on his arsche. Timothy had run off in the crowd, so I sprang up and ran after her. I nearly lost her but managed to spot her bobbing bob and we legged it into the back streets up by where the Stags Head used to be. We lay on the concrete ramp and caught her breath.
"Thanks for that!" She said and looked into my face and laughed.
I laughed too.
Me and my friend were having a laugh together.

We were pissing ourselves, as they say in this fucked up country.

2006-07-25T08:18:00.000-07:00

Homeless summer evenings are well spent by the canal in Camden with friends drinking special brew. Special brew is so called because Carlsberg brewed it specially for Winston Churchill to tank him for liberating their country from the Nazis. They asked him how he liked lager, and he said "strong and sweet". Consequently Special brew comes in a golden can and is one of the strongest and sweetest lagers you can get, and is therefore a favourite of street drinkers, tramps, crusties, madmen and me.
I leave my clothes in the ladies pond in Hampstead heath and have been taken to wearing bikini tops mini skirt and boots. It makes men look lustful, and yes but so what of it?
We were sitting and standing around a bench drunk and shouting and singing as the sun set turning the water lovely lovely lovely. I sat on Piet's lap and he gripped me around the waist. Vlad was bunched up next to us making some joke. I could feel Piets hands riding up my waist under under my breasts in a sexual way so I turned to face him. He launch his lips in for a kiss.
"No you don't Piet," I laughed and pushed myself up off his chest. I thought that would be it but I was wrong.
"Hey, what's wrong with me, you prick teasing slag!" He shouted, white flecks in the corners of his mouth. "You're just a dirty tart, what are you doing all slagged up like a whore when you don't give a shit about me, or any of us?"
I was a little angered by this, but I tried to keep the tone light.
"Typical man," I laughed, "Just now you wanted to have sex with me, make love to me. But now you hate me, just seconds later. What is it with you." I looked around for support, to catch another girls eye to make this a sisterly put down.

That's when I realised. I was the only woman there. All my friends were men. It's not like I didn't already know this, I just had never thought about it. But now I did.

No one caught my eye. I looked from shadowy dirty face to shadowy dirty face and I realised that they all hated me. They all wanted to fuck me so badly that they hated me for it.

Then I plunged into a spiral of doubt. Why are all my friends men? I looked down at my bare belly and legs, my bursting out breasts and bangles on my arms. Why do I dress like this? I like male attention. I like sexual attention. But most women don't, or pretend not to.

I hereby resolve to make some female friends,

By no other name smells as sweet

2006-07-12T02:34:00.000-07:00

In a beautiful valley in Germany where the lake reflected the sky was born a flawless child that smelled as sweet as heaven to women but of nothing at all to men.
"Let's call him Rose" Said his Mother.
"That's a girls name." Said his Father.
And the child ended up with no name since he was all the world to his mother and nothing at all to his Father.

As he grew to adolescence he devoloped a crafty sloth and would do none of the work of the home or the village. He spent several years in bed complaining of subtle maladies. His beautiful smell to his mother was the same to all women and women everywhere found his lounging indolence adorable.
"I can't help with the harvest today" He would say, with a crooked smile and a flip of his golden hair, "I need to lie under a tree and examine my nails, see how they change in appearance before and after a jug of beer."
And the women and the girls would giggle and squeal and look at each other as if to say, "What an adorable creature!"

His lack of smell to his Father was the same for all men everywhere, and no men in the village ever noticed him at all, or knew who he was. They didn't miss him in the fields, on the work benches, in the Forge or in the Mill. He could walk right into the store house and help himself to a sausage, some cheese, a loaf and some berries and they wouldn't notice. Not that he was a glutton, he scarcely seemed to eat at all. He was a weedy boyish young man and the women would love to feed him up.

As he attained manhood a flaw became apparent. He had one oddly protruding tooth. But this was made up by the perfection of his penis. It stood out large languid and proud from his body like a lions head.

Being so lazy and lacking in means he had little status in the village. The girls would collectively dismiss him as silly. The men would ignore him completely. But one sunny afternoon, Rosalin, the most vuluptuous girl in the village, tasted that which smelled so sweet in a hay barn. Later in the evening when the women were mocking our sweet smelling hero, laughing at how they would never dream of marrying such a useless, charming duckling, Rosalin blushed pink, and the girls as one turned to her in delight. She nodded her head and they all giggled and squealed. Thus it came to be known that there was one equisite pleasure to be had in the village that could be had no where else in Europe.

Village life can be idyllic but the ways of the wide world intrude. A war, some silly matter of men, swept the nation. The men gathered round the well bright eyed serious and brave, made manly pacts and went their seperate ways to tell their wives and sweethearts that they were needed by the Fatherland and would have to part from the village and their loving breasts, to return crowned in glory. The men of the village who were not already married became married that week and it was a week of tears, veils and rings.
Our nameless duckling, who had acquired the monica "toothy", watched languidly from the roof of the church where he could rest undisturbed. No one asked him to come away to war, and no one asked him to marry. So neither did he do.

The war, predictably, was longer than expected and much more terrible than imagined. The women did all the work of the village for a long summer while the men confronted the true horror of this violent world we have made. The men returned bedraggled and crowned in thorns, their eyes dull to the happiness of their wives. Nor did they notice that their wives were bearing fruit.

Twenty years on, the war forgotton, we find the village very peaceful indeed. The shops never open, the fields aren't tilled, and everywhere are sleepy men lounging under trees, by the banks of streams, on the old church roof. And they all seem to have one thing in common.

An oddly protruding tooth.

litigation culture

2006-07-05T01:43:00.000-07:00

An amusing story from Olga Von Porno's suprisingly accurate prophesy:

I saw this in a dream in a history text book. There was (will be) an Anglican vicar named Jacob Mod in the mid west of America who was interested in numerology and the book of revelations. He noticed a particular eleven digit number seemed to keep recurring. After month's of trying to fathom its meaning, he tried dialling it on his telephone.
Lo and behold God Almighty the creator of the universe and all things bright and beautiful answered!
"Hello", he said.
"Who is this?" Asked Mod, awed but confused.
"I am that I am." Answer He who Is.
Mod, unable to think of what to say, put down the phone and ran down the road to the bank, where it was cool and quite and he often would go in order to reflect.

It is well known that God moves in mysterious ways, and that he chose Mod to reveal His telephone number is as big a mystery as any. Mod, you see, had a kind of spiritual dyslexia. He was a believing christian, but he believed in the material world of finance and investment as being much more causally significant than the existence of a being of pure love that created the universe. Consequently he sold God's telephone number to members of the American middleclasses who had enough money to pay for a "personal line to the Almighty". He sold it in encrypted form so that you had to pay him for each and every call, and could not then pass the number on. And Mod became wealthy, in a mediocre way, and falls out of the story and into a gated community. It is not known whether Mod himself used the telephone number very often, if at all, but it is reported that he became a great lover of the "Jet Ski" and other irratating noisey toys of the rich.

The American middleclasses being what they are made fairly predictable use of their direct line to the Almighty. Untalented middleclass children gained entry into Havard and got jobs as lawyers and Doctors. Teeth and noses became straightened and vision corrected. Dry cleaners became more efficient. Congestion was reduced on certain commuter routes. The whale was saved.

But as the use of the direct line to the Almighty became more commonplace the clients of the service came to feel entitled, and with entitlement comes resentment and litigation.

God became inundated with complaint calls. "Why did my son fail his exams?" "Why did my Mother die of cancer when she led such an exemplary life?" "Why did June Albright not fall in love with me when I bought her an all expenses paid romantic weekend for two in Paris?".

At first God tried to answer these complaints in cryptic biblical style that had served him so well in the past. "Man was born to trouble as the sparks fly upward." "God giveth and God taketh away" "By the rivers of Babylon". But the American middleclasses were used to a better class of customer services. They wanted accountability, they wanted proper answers to their complaints, and they wanted them dealt with "yesterday". Mod's fee for a single call was five thousand Dollars and his richer clients were rolling in lawyers and business negotiators to get a better deal out of the call. God ended up receiving over 10 000 calls a day from lawyers, some of whom were threatening litigation.

The highly publicised trial of "Samuel Bowles v God" marked the hiatus. Bowles' Lawyers were making the case that Bowles had every right to expect God to cure him of prostrate cancer as he had donated $50 000 to charity on the understanding that God would provide this service following a call made by Bowles' P.A. on 11.7.2---. The Jury heard a recording of the call where God clearly stated that "To he who hath, more shall be given."

The case collapsed when God called a medical expert witness who found that Bowles did not "strictly speaking" have prostrate cancer, and that the "charity" to which he had donated the aforementioned sum was an amateur dramatics society of which his wife was the only member.

However God decided to go the way of most companies and outsource his customer services wing. He set up a call centre in Hell to deal with the complaints of the American middleclasses. They were trained not to make any explicit promises. All the time they spent on the toilet was logged and docked from their wages.

So let this be a warning to all naughty girls and boys and white collar criminals and lawyers. Mend your ways, or you will spend an eternity in a call centre in hell dealing with the complaints of assertive Americans with an overwhelming sense of entitlement.

Poor Helga

2006-06-29T05:46:00.000-07:00

Being unused to wealth, I failed to realise that it was finite. Consequently I have spent the vast fortune I won at the Philosophers Casino and am poor. Other than some ridiculous gambles, some fanciful evenings and a few hairaising flights in a bi plane with Von Himmel, I spent most of my fortune on largesse to the homeless of London. When I was living in a squat and spending all my wages on heroine for granny, I used to shrug my shoulders and smile at beggars. "Sorry, I too am living in poverty" I would say, and we would smile at each other sadly and sisterly.
But dressed in outfits made by artists with backsplash on my face from champagne target practice, I felt a change in attitude was in order.

I was coming back from a weeks safari in the darkest congo when a bearded young man told me he was hungry and homeless and could I help him in anyway.
"Yes, I can!" I said, and got my finance manager to buy the man a house in Mayfair and commissioned a chef to cook for him. The bearded man thanked me profusely and attempted to kiss my hand, but I pushed him away declaring that true generosity needs no recognition.

A week later my finance manager informed me that my credit was no longer good and now I'm back to square one.

It's strange how certain friends vanish with your money. Still, it is summer and the parks are dry and the nights are warm.

Pornorita

2006-06-12T16:03:00.000-07:00

Don Rodrigez road through the narrow mountain path in the June evening into Trevelas in the Sierra Nevada. In the village square he spied Pornorita and fell in love. Her Husbund, Lacos, was by her side. Rodrigez addressed Pornorita. "I will challenge your husband to a dual to the death with you as a prize if you assent. If he accepts I will kill him and take you for my own and you shall be the queen of my not inconsiderable kingdom. If he refuses, then he will live in shame forever more and I shall take you anyway. Do you accept my suite?"
"If you kill my husband, I will cut my throat." Said Pornorita and wiped the drool from her not inconsiderable breast.
"I however will accept the challenge," said brave poor Lacos, a scrawny illfed peasant, "on one condition.You must provide me with a horse and armour to match your own. When you have found the armour and horse, I will choose between your own armour, and that which you have made for me, so that I can be assured that they are equal."
"It shall be." Quoth Don Rodrigez
"And if I best you you must give me your kingdom." Said Lacos with a dry mouth.
Don Rodrigez laughed a deep and hearty laugh. "If you best Rodrigez, the mightiest warrior in all ofHiberia, then Leon is yours." He joked and repaired to the Tavern to rest.
Six days passed and Rodrigez set the dual for the seventh morning when the church bell struck seven times.
That night Pornorita perfumed her sleek black hair and bathed her creamy skin in goats milk and roses. She donned her most alluring robe and visited the tavern where Rodrigez was housed. She snuck into his chamber and woke him by stroking his chest.
"Rodrigez, take me now, so that I can see what I can expect after you have killed my husband." Rodrigez made love to Pornorita with a passion born of madness.
As he lay beside her, Pornorita said to him,"That was quite good. But Lacos makes love to me fourteen times a night, and on the fourteenth time I am sent into an ecstacy that I cannot live without."
Rodrigez was amused and aroused, for Pornorita was the most beautiful woman in all of Spain, and there were a great many beautiful women in Spain at that time.
"You must make love to me like we are dancing and support my weight with your hand as you stand."
Rodrigez was not used to being instructed by a woman, but his pride seemed to be at stake. He made love to her standing up, with her whole weight in his right hand.
"That was so so. This time you must try harder." Panted the beautiful Pornorita, "Lacos is far better at that position."
Furious, Rodrigez made love to her again and again, until the sky turned from black to blue.
He lay there shattered and aching, wanting nothing more than this wretched demanding woman to leave him alone.
"Come, Rodrigez. You have only made love to me twelve times, surely the greatest knight in Hiberia is not a failure in the sack!"
In a fug of exhaustion, Rodrigez managed to make love to Pornorita once more.
"Now you must finally send me into the ecstacy I have been waiting for. Perhaps you need strong wine to revive you, for the fourteenth position requires great strength." Rodrigez gratefully drank a jug of strong wine, and with the last of his strength made love to Pornorita for the fourteenth time in a most unusual way.
"That wasn't very good." Said Pornorita, pouting."Lacos is much better than that, I hope he kills you today." And she strode out of the room like a fury that hell knows not.

As she slammed the door, the bell struck seven times.

Drunk and exhausted, Rodrigez made for the village square. "Here is your armour, made to fit your body like a second skin by the little folk of Cornwall.
And this sword was made by Moorish wizards and was made especially for your hand and eye. The lance is strong and true and made of living wood.
And this horse was Fathered by the Prince of all Arabia, winner of every known race, and Mothered by a spark that fell from a star."
Lacos stood arms folded and wry, "I choose your horse and armour, you have mine."
Rodrigez spluttered indignantly, but was too tired to argue. "I need my horse and armour, it is mine, it is like an extension of myself. And I don't want your wife any longer. Let us call of this stupid fight and embrace like brothers."
"Don Rodrigez a coward?" Sneered Lacos, and the villagers around about laughed and threw stones.
"Enough, let it be done. I will have your armour and you will have mine.
Meet back here when the clock strikes nine."
Rodrigez was twice the size of Lacos, and the armour made for Lacos wouldn't fit. The helmet sat on top of his head and kept slipping into his eyes. The vest cut into his skin and stopped the flow of blood into his arms. And the sword rejected his grip with black magic art. He got on to the whippy horse, who bucked like a devil and threw him twice before he mastered the saddle.
The horse galloped around the village out of control with Rodrigez in his tiny armour bouncing atop. The children of the village laughed and jeered.
There was a blackness around the edges of the Don's eyes, both inside and out.
He came to a halt in the square face to face with his own horse and armour. The church bell wrang out nine times. Don Rodrigez, unsure if he was in a dream, charged his own horse and image and drove his lance into his own breast. The suit of armour came apart. There was no one inside.
Lacos leaped from the roof top where he had been hiding and knocked Rodrigez of his horse. He hit him with a rock in the face and took his sword and held it to his throat.
"Yield!" Says Lacos.
Rodrigez groaned and said: "This is ridiculous. I don't want your wretched wife any more, I don't want to fight you, I just want to go to bed. By myself."
"Your days as a proud and bullying Knight are done. Leon is mine and yours is the plough."
And from that day forth Lacos and Pornorita lived as King and Queen of Leon in great splendor and happiness and had many descendents one of which I am.
Rodrigez went on to become the Famous Knight known as El Cid. Lacos and Pornorita had taught him the lesson of humility that made him into a truly great knight.

If...then

2006-05-31T14:08:00.000-07:00

1. I was in a house we were plastering and refurbishing with Vlad and Pieter when I came across a dangling electric wire.
"If you touch that then you'll get a shock" Said Vlad the Nag.
Defiant I reached out and gripped it in my lilly white fist. Seconds before I gripped it there was a power cut and all the lights went off. Then when I let go all the lights flickered back on. I touched the wire and didn't get a shock

2. We were playing around in a sheep field in Wiltshire. I was with Proffessor Nucket and Tim Bones. Bones had escaped from East Germany before the wall came down by submitting himself to a "psychiatric hospital". He has had odd responses to everyday experiences ever since.
We came across an electric fence and we all took turns in getting shocks by holding it. When it came to Bone's turn he said.
"If I stand on a bucket before I hold it I will not get a shock"
He stood on a bucket and did not get a shock. Nucket was skeptical and told him to repeat the experiment without the bucket. Bones held the fence tightly for several minutes without feeling a thing, although a greenish substance trickeled from his ears. We stripped Bones naked and tied him to the fence. He felt nothing.

3. I was playing poker with Sir Quintin Black, the evil over Lord of the Cockney Philosophers. His Grandmother lay next to him in a bed on castors. I was winning.
"If you don't fetch her some water from the kitchen my Grandmother will die." Said Black in a movie trailor voice.
I saw through his ruse to change his cards while I was out of the room. I didn't fetch his grandmother water. Black drew out a gun and shot his Grandmother through the eye socket.
I did not fetch her some water and she did die.

4. I went in to the post office to sign for a parcel. When I signed my name the post officer was incredulous.
"If you are Helga Von Porno, then I'm the Queen of Sheba!"
I am Helga Von Porno, and by a fluke sequence of chance events he was the Queen of Sheba.

So you can see, the logical analysis of if...then sentences is no easy matter.

War on Terror

2006-05-16T15:02:00.000-07:00

I was hitching North West, thinking perhaps to go to Liverpool and join a band and become internationally famous like the Beatles.
A beaten up white van responded to my thumb semaphore. A real British Tommy stuck his shaven head out the window. His head was quite big and white and scabby. His neck was bigger still and he had great muscly arms and torso. The breed that caused the sun never to set on the union Jack. And who raped my compatriots and looted the father land after WWII.
"Get in" e said roughly with a sinister leer.
It was more a mini bus, and six other crew cutted bullocks of men sat in the back like paratroopers waiting to jump.
They looked at me with menace and hidden conspiracy, like only they knew what they would do to me.
"are you fellows in the forces by any chance?" I enquired, hiding my German accent under a jolly hockysticks twang.
They laughed and then stopped abruptley and made faces like some hip hop band.
I shuffled my foot nervously and tipped open a bag under my seat and three or four firearms fell out. Great big machine guns. They rolled their eyes and stiffened their lips.
"You give me the horn girl" said perhaps the leader. "Come and sit next to me, I want to set you straight"
Cowed I obeyed.
"Now I'm going to tell you what these guns are about. We take them out of the army and sell em on. We sell them to terrorist training camps and to terrorists. It's all part of the "War on terror". Its all paid for by the CIA. I know one Texan who runs one of these camps, he only puts boot polish on his face to make him look like a nigger. And those poor daft cunt towel heads swallow it whole. Any way, I don't give a shit. We gets our cut. And we will never get caught. We can do what ever the fuck we like. Why? because the top brass are in on it, and the united states of fucking America. Organised crime, girl, Well organised!
"Every now and then some green fresh faced squaddie will come across our little scam. Ever heard of the Deep Cut barracks suicides? We just fucking kills them! And the brass "investigate" it and find out that it was suicide, and they don't let the police get their grubby little paws anywhere near because it's an army matter. Get this, one of them killed himself, by shooting himself in the back with ten rounds fired at thirty yards, the cunt. Took the easy way out didn't he."
"Now if I were you, I'd be thinking why is he telling me all this. I'm telling you because I likes it that way. I like my victims eyes fucking open. I like them to despair completely. Because I'm going to rape you, and then kill you, and nobody in the wide just world is going to stop me, or even slap my wrist."
My cheeks flushed red, I couldn't help myself. And my breath quickened to a pant and my heart started pounding. This was a pretty bad ride, and I couldn't see a way out. And the brute probably thought I was aroused, all flushed cheeks, bossom heaving, eyes flickering. But it was just fear. It was fear, the terrible villain.
We were going down some narrow lane with woods on either side. The van stopped, and the brute said to the others that I was his. Then he pointed a gun in my face and told me to get out.
My mind was sharp as a crystal. I just obeyed.
He pushed me ahead of him deep into the wood, kept poking my back with the barrel.
"Kneel down!" He commanded. I fell to my knees, some foul instinct making me want to please him.
"Rip your shirt at the top, let me see those tits!"
The plan came in a flash. I ripped my shirt and arched my back. Then I dove into a yogic forward roll that turned into a shoulder stand and I flung my sprung legs over my head in a double kick and got both my stilletto heels right in his face just below the eyebrows. Nasty. He staggered backwards and fell on his back. I continued to roll with the kick, and flipped out of a handstand into a summersault landing on his chest. It would have looked from a distance like coitus feminist style. But I fucked him in a different way. I punched him hard on the nose, again and again with his head back to the ground. I smashed the fucker in. Then I did his mouth, feeling his teeth crumble and splinter, cutting into my poor lily white hand and dainty fiddle playing fingers. I did another complicated yogic manoever and got my leg right over my left should and bought my heel down on the tendons in his wrist. I ground and mashed them up till his fingers went limp and released the gun. I grabbed the gun and leapt to my feet. The beast was still conscious.
I know this sounds rather violent and barbaric on my part. But he had seriously led me to believe that he was going to rape and kill me. And what is more, I probably wasn't the first, or last. Still, I am a firm believer in justice, and the tattered remains of democracy. I wanted this man to have a fair trial.
"Get up." I said to him, composed and clipped and quitely. I noticed he had an erection visible through his trousers. "You are aroused arent you? You want me to spank you, didums?" I said, but regreted it immediatley. He was my prisoner. I am not permitted to humiliate him.
I led him back to the van. I was still in considerable danger. Thugs and immoral reprobates though these men were, they were still British soldiers, and I was outnumbered.
I made him get in first. When they saw his face, and the big bloody hole where his mouth was they laughed! These were not men, they were wolves, demons, savages. As soon as their leader weakens, their loyalty evapourates.
One of them reached for a gun. I shot him in the wrist, and then between the legs, just below the pelvis. I am a very good shot. His face went pale and he shrieked like a girl and fainted away.
I know this was bad of me. I repent utterly and will regret it to the end of my days. But what could I do? I had to strike fear into these killers, and yet I could not kill them. I have already killed a man, and nothing has scolded my conscious more, every day, every day every day. No I couldn't kill them. But it was enough. The others were suffiently scared to tie each other up after that.
I got "Gums" as I now jokingly called him, to tell me where he was taking the guns. He told me an address in Liverpool.
I left the goons tied up in the van and rang the buzzer on the wharehouse intercom.
Inside I talked to a man with long black hair. I told him the special words that gums had taught me. He showed me "$10 000 and told me to take him to the guns.
To cut a long story short, a couple of hours, and a few yoga moves later, the long hair was tied up in the back with the goons and I was on the road to Scotland Yard.
I found a police man I could trust. The army fellows would get a fair trial, I was assured.
After sorting through the facts, James Sourse, as he told me he was called, took me up to his private office.
"I must say I am impressed. And you are a very attractive young lady, with great courage and panache."
"Cut the crap you smooth talking bastard" I said, in a friendly way.
James coughed, and er hummed, and then told me that they were investigating this "War on terror" Conspiracy themselves, but it was just too big. Tony Blair is in on it, Ossama Bin Laden, both Bushes, and even commedian Michel Moore. What suprised me most was that David Bowie, of "Space oddity" fame was also in on it, as was cheeky scouser Paul Macartney.
The conspiracy was simple in its pure evil. A bunch of high up capitalists, having become the richest people in the world, wanted to be the richest people ever, ever. The only way to guarantee this was to end the world. They manufactured everything. They convinced the bankers that growth was necessary for the economy, making the use of energy spiral out of control creating global warming and an energy crisis. Meanwhile they trained and funded terrorist groups to attack america to create global racial disharmony. The scientific community was a threat for a while, but they silenced them with bribery and obfuscation and anti intellectualism. Anyway, the amount of things, it's incredible, but its all there in front of our eyes so there's no point going on about it. The public name for it is the war on terror. Those in the know then say "and terror never dies" the implication is that a war on terror can never end, because war feeds terror like wood feeds a fire, and the war will soak up all the resources in the world, creating more and more terror until the end of the fucking world. Then these men will be the richest men ever ever ever.
So then James offers me a job in this two bit old school department, where they think they are going to James Bond this evil conspiracy. He was going to send me into the White house, disguised as a christian or something, or a wooden horse, and jump out and say "I'm arresting you in the name of the law" Shoot a few rounds and live happily ever afterwards and get some sexy toyboy for the last scene.

Just fanning the flames, James, just fanning the flames.

A secret agent isn't what you need to fight this thing.

Love is the answer, and you know that, and I know that, for sure.

That Shrinking feeling

2006-05-11T16:13:00.000-07:00

My new job is a researcher for Proffessor Ecks. He has a shambling house in Highgate that must have been in the family for years since no one could afford now, especially an ivory tower type like Ecks. After a few days of anxiety I realised that very little was expected of me. He is a venture physicist and is interested in the hypothesis that there can be "static velocity". I make him cups of tea, occaionally put his notes in order, and clean his bizarre equipment. He sidles up to me lecherously and makes lewd remarks.
One day he was off at a rabbit swapping fair in East Grinstead and left me to my own devices. Part of his equipment was a silver owl with ruby eyes. It seemed too ornate and figurative for a phycisist, but I was struck by its mystic allure. I gripped it around the wings and a tonguelike wire shot out of its mouth. The tip of its tongue was a whirring propellor that struck my left breast right above the nipple and dug into my flesh. I felt myself fill with static velocity. A sharp metallic feeling that smothered my tongue and thrilled my spine. My eyes stuck out like chess pawn heads.
I was shrinking fast, and everything slowed down. I ended up a thumbnail tall on Ecks desk, but my mind was whirring faster that a Jet propellor.
I found a crack in a fissure on Ecks' desktop and fell into a society of equally small ex researchers who had succombed to the owl. The story of how I befriended this community is long, and I won't tell it here, but in my whirring time, years and years have passed, and I became a celebrity in the desk. I learned to sing and play the fiddle and everyone exhalted in my flamboyance. There were drummers and bassists and singers and hurdy gurdy players, there were poets and jugglers and seamstresses and television moguls, and I was everyone's darling and we would get smashed on a thimbulfull of gin and a strand of tobacco.
But things went wrong with a heartthrob nail high named Robeo. O Robeo! At first never so gallant, but in the end a cruel slapper of his erstwhile beloved, a dispairing heap, a puffy joweled embittered biscuit of his former self.
So I seduced the laddersmith into making me a ladder back out of the fissure onto the desk top and into the windy world of indoors chez Ecks.
Ecks was back by now, and such a looming monster. And so slow! He picked up his coffee cup so slow I had time to pack my things and jump aboard. After a week of traveling he bought his cup up to his lips and I climbed aboard his face and up to his eye lid where I crawled right into his brain.
What a circus! But I can't possibly describe. The thoughts were slow enough for me to bounce inside.
I found the secret to my small fastness, I was super charged with static velocity.
Within his brain I found the fantasizing engine that made me swell and swell behind his eyes. He began to quicken as I began to slow and he took out his stork and began to shuffle it two and four as I grew and grew in his imagination, feeding like a whale in a butter sea.
And I burst out of his eyeball a whole and bestockinged beauty and lay there like a new born, panting and gore covered but like a fifties pin up, always remembering to be coquettish.

He growned and was blind in one eye but unharmed. I dismissed myself, and showered and dished the dirt and was out.
Sadly wondered home on foot, not needing newspapers to shock me into realising that once again no time had elapsed, not more than a few days.
Back to my flat lie flat back on the floor, fill my eyes with cieling and real eyes that now it is even less likely that ANYONE will understand me.

Happiness

2006-04-19T01:18:00.000-07:00

Having climbed the piss smelling concrete stairs to the ninth floor of this kings cross tower block, I stood on the balcony corridor outside 907 looking at the blue sky over the Gas cylinders. I raised my left hand into the blue and it shone translucent white with pink mosaic around the knuckles, my nails just pink of white. My frail hand against the fresh spring sky touched the happy thread through my life back to my childhood and into the future. There I was, deeply happy and complete, from my heels to my head, no content but my hand and the sky and my soul pulsing inside me.
The door opened, and the two men, skin-headed and tatooed, let me though the door into the flat behind. Back to business.
The door slammed shut leaving you outside on the balcony with the dead fish eye lense looking at you vacantly. You try to find the happiness I felt there in that place, but it is gone, leaving nothing but the wind and the deep blue sky and the sound of children hurting one another.

My Day

2006-04-12T15:57:00.000-07:00

Defeated Vladamir the builder in an illicit fencing tournament on the top floor of a building project in Kings Cross. Won £400 against the odds, as Vlad is known as the best street fencer in London, with the title, "The Impaler"

Played chess with Professor Rutger, famous for his paper on the foundations of logic, and also a prostigious chess player, fornicator and gourmet. Won twice in whites, and once in blacks, leaving him in a foul mood and bereft of an heirloom.

Rehearsed trapese at the circus school, achieved a quadruple back somersault landing on horse back and jumping through hoop of real fire.

Spent the evening spending my winnings in st John's for fish, followed by drinking in Soho. Managed to down one more vodka than Toffee Tim, Eton's most famous lush. Left him face down on the table.

Went home and cried for lonliness. When will I ever find an equal?

The Philosopher's Casino

2006-04-06T04:21:00.000-07:00

I was skipping through the streets of London in a rapture this fine spring evening when evening turned to night and I became lost.

On a narrow cobbled lane dank with the Thames I spied a basement level arched entrance with the words "The Philosopher's Casino" curved across the top in sequenced light bulbs.

The door man took my muff, the cover charge was a paradox, so I gave him one of Zeno's.

Inside was a huge hall teeming with chatterers around tables, reminiscent of an auction house, a stock exchange or a flock of pedestrian geese.

The tables were games where the punters bet upon philosophical problems. There was 40/1 on the definition of beauty, 8/1 on a physicalist reduction of mind, 3/7 on the foundation of mathematics, 0/-0 on the liars paradox. Around each table were bald pates, beards, pipes, and half moon spectacles gesturing and spluttering. Dotted around the tables were armchairs provided by the house.

I went up to a table and saw a French man had just won a huge pile of cash from a bald pated scotsman. "Anyone else?" Said the Frenchman, "Show me some proof of the external world."

The croupier set the odds at a 100/1 since the French man had been winning this bet for a long time against some of the best philosophers of the world.

I elbowed my way to the edge of the table. "I'll bet a thousand that the external world exists!" I piped.

"Boo, not worth my while, " sneered the French man, "Ten thousand of your English pounds if I can doubt any of your proofs, One million pounds for you if I can't."

"Done!" I cried and spat in my palm. He looked appalled and declined to shake my hand til he had pulled on a kit glove.

My heart started racing, I had to win, I didn't have ten pounds, let alone ten thousand, and I knew that these philosophers could get pretty nasty when you don't pay your debts. One friend had had his face ripped off, the wound covered in hot honey and red ants and left in the gutter screaming to death. The police did nothing, such was the grip of fear these philosophers had over the city. My friend's only crime was to try and pass off an Epistemological argument for a Metaphysical one over a three pound bet.

I started with the old "If my hands are before me, then the external world exists, here is my left hand, here is my right hand, therefore the external world exists."

"Ah," said the French man, "But I could be dreaming, in which case, I could have the sensations of you holding up your hands, without you holding your hands up at all. You have succeeded in demonstrating only that I can percieve your hands. But perception doesn't guarantee truth."

Now I made my killer move, "But if you are dreaming, then our bet took place in the dream, in which case, I have proved that the dream exists. If you are not dreaming, then the bet took place outside the dream, in which case I have proved the external world exists. You cannot both claim that you are dreaming and that you have won the bet. Therefore you owe me a million pounds!"

The assembly around the table applauded and turned like mere cats to face my interlocuter. "But if I am dreaming, you aren't even real," he faltered.

"In which case, nor is the million pounds that you owe me, so you may as well pay up!"

The croupier squinted at the Frenchman. "Pay the lady Rene, looks like your luck finally ran out, dream hypothesis, pchah!"

I bought several crates of champagne and high quality catering and had them delivered to the homeless on the streets. Then I went home, lined my box with cash and fell into a happy slumber.

Today I went searching for the philosopher's casino, but it was no where to be found. I thought I came across the same arch in the same cobbled street, but there was no great hall, just a step with a few boxes and an old drunk dribbling in his sleep.

ressurection

2006-04-04T10:17:00.000-07:00

On the third day I lifted the lid of my box. The sunlight poured in and filled me with pure energy. The birds were singing and children were laughing and playing in the streets.

I got up to find that my hair and become a fine platinum blond. I wore a simple white dress that buttoned up the front and fell like a veil over my pail frail form. The only contrast to my snow white skin was my scarlet lips, two cherries in the snow in the winter.

I skipped into Soho picking dafodils and smiling and laughing at passersby.

I saw an old drunk lying in an alley way that smelt of human shit and was dotted with blood tipped syringes. His eyes were half closed with utter despair. His face was a creased up old map of the wrong way to live.

I shook him gently and held his sorry head by the hair behind the ears and pointed his face up to mine.

"I love you, I love you," I said, right into his eyes and poured love through my palms into his head. I kissed him full on the lips and sucked in his foul fetid breath.

I left daffodils in his lap and skipped away to do more good deeds.

For example they gave me too much change at the dildo shopand I pointed out their error immediatley.

chrysalis

2006-04-03T15:03:00.000-07:00

I've realised that the change was only beginning. After the complete destruction of my self esteem and respect my interest in the world dwindled. I became listless. The sunlight abhored me. I took to lying on the floor for long periods, moving once a sun cycle to drink water from the tap and lick salt. My thoughts flattened to a low hum.

But the draft bothered me so I built a box. But I was weak so I eat offal.

The box I made from mahogony and lined with red satin.

In the box I felt nothing.

Nothing yawned wide and deep and horrific. But I was cold and felt no pain.

Renunciation

2006-03-30T04:06:00.000-08:00

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.

back to reality

2006-03-21T14:36:00.000-08:00

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!

Losing the point

2006-03-20T10:06:00.000-08:00

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."

Only Me

2006-03-13T13:53:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-09T08:06:00.000-08:00

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

I want to do the congoooooo...

2006-03-07T07:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Magic Larry

2006-03-05T06:13:00.000-08:00

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.

SPACE EXPLORATION DRIVEN BY IDEALISM

2006-02-27T07:22:00.000-08:00

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!

The Mayor of London

2006-02-25T11:37:00.000-08:00

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.

Revolutionary violence

2006-02-16T15:21:00.000-08:00

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.

the melancholy of unwanted christmas gifts

2006-01-05T08:51:00.000-08:00

Before my parents were murdered, I used to get a special kind of melancholy every year after Christmas. My Mother would buy me some useless and expensive gifts and my Father would scold her cruelly for wasting money. I would feel hurt on my Mothers behalf and want desperately to prove that the present was a good, wanted one and not a waste of money. I deeply needed the affection that the gifts represented, and therefore would try hard to want the gifts themselves. So I would spend the weeks following Christmas trying hard to love these inanimate pale elephants, and it is a deep sadness to love a useless thing, or to try, but fail, to love a useless thing.
I recieved such a gift this Christmas from the flop haired fop. I cataurwailed drunk outside his West end flat, drunk on vodka at three in the morning. Instead of despising me and sending me away as I suspected, he took me in and fucked me as tenderly as pork loin. What a gentleman! And then on Christmas eve he gave me expensive tickets to see a Russian Ballet, The ticket cost £75. Und Ich? I gave him Nichts. I looked down at the ticket in my hand and my eyes welled up with tears, and behind the tears, rage. It was a work night, the night of the ballet. But I would only earn £30 and it would seem mean of me to refuse to take the night off. There was no one left to swap with. And I am so poor. And I don't have any interest in the Ballet, I would seriously prefer to watch football on TV and I have no interest in football. Since he bought me the ticket, I suppose I would be obliged to buy drinks and what have you on the night. And some kind of bourgois outfit. But I so wanted this Man's love, I so so wanted to be grateful. That he had set me such an impossible task made me angry. I tore up the ticket and threw it in his face a stormed away from him without looking back. Stupid stupid stupid Helga, stupid dum dum dum

Tolerance

2005-12-20T11:33:00.000-08:00

It was near Christmas and I came back after working at the bar to find my Grandmother in an unusually good mood. She was drinking schnapps and crooning to herself. I found a small blue guitar in a skip and handed it to her as a gift. She took it up and started singing all her old songs and I had a rush of tenderness for her. It reminded me of magical christmas parties we used to have in my childhood, with Grandmother singing and playing and all the party joining in, smoking cigars laughing drinking joking with dimness filled with colourful light softened orange by happiness and warmth. I sang along and we looked into each others faces with laughing joy. It was a wonderful moment that stood out like a star in all this bitter darkness that filled my days.
But then came a pounding on the door. A large man in his thirties with a balding head and a dirty white vest confronted me as I opened the door a crack. "Stop that horrible howling guitar NOW, some of us have to work for a living." Was the gist of what he was saying, although it seemed to go on a lot longer.
Eventually he had had his say and went away. We were beaten. The complainers have inherited the earth. If you complain, you are always right. The orange glow vanished and was replaced by a pale blue. My Grandmother's face, moments before a radiant beacon a joyous love, crumpled it to a tired old broken rag, grey and used. She dropped the guitar despondently to the ground and bowed her head. The sound of my sobbing was drowned out by the sound of police sirens wailing, a heavey goods lorry idling outside the window, rattling the window pains. A train rumbling underground, vibrating the floor boards. Cars reving their engines and sounding there horns. The spin cycle of a washing machine. All these noises were allowed by the balding man. But our piece of happiness, that he could not tolerate. And the police and society is on his side. We must suffer in silence rather than rejoice together in musical harmony.

Happy Slappers

2005-12-16T08:10:00.000-08:00

So now the gang have been arrested and imprisoned. I don't say I knew them, although I had been around them a bit. What is frightening, unmentionably frightening about them is that they are artists. They were into violence for its own sake. This transendence of means, this seeing something in itself, and not as a means to an end, is constitutive of Art in Kant's philosophy. They were not political, they attacked the poor and the weak for no reason other than that they made easy targets. They did not do it as a means of robbery, as a way of getting money so they could buy commodities. They wanted to represent what they had done on video and over the internet, as a "documentary". What is this Art?
Why is it so frightening? Now people, myself included, have become even more afraid of children and teenagers. The gang were black and white, male and female. But they were all young. They represented in graphic and recorded form the fear that adults have of children. By senseless violence they have widened the gap between two groups that is ever more coming to resemble a war. A cold war with frequent outburst of violence.
No adult organisation, no journalists, no broadcasters and no college or school will ever call what they have done Art, even though it represents something very powerfully emotional in our growingly isolated citerzenship, the fear of children. The war on children is fought on all angles. The police have been given new powers to arrest children for loitering, for talking to each other, for making political statements on walls, from accessing the internet. Children are forbidden to play outside in most areas, and have been forced off the road by aggressive car culture. These happy slappers are a great fear, people tremble in the street when they see the not-fully-grown in groups of three or four in hoods. It seems now that a man has been killed, and that all children are responsible. Art by its very nature makes some valueless acticity seem worthwhile, beautiful even. In the paranoid mind of collective adult consciousness, this happy slapping is something that all children are in on. A nationwide plot that has been whispered around the playgrounds (though there are few playgrounds left). But this is false. Happy slapping as a concept has been spread by the adult world of sensational reporting. Why? Because it represents a fear that the contemporary adult has for children. It is as if all children would like nothing better than to beat up an adult and film them on a video camera, and this is something that adults fill deep in their hearts. But what is the reality? Some psychopathic Artists beat and kicked a man to death. The media reported it like a sport event, comparing the kick to the head to a football kick. They said the victim looked like he had been in a car accident. Now adult lives are threatened by children. Not just black children, not just boys, but white boys and little girls as well. They are everywhere, on every street corner, in our homes on our busses. We must lock them up... all of them. But adults kill three children every day. When adults kill children it is always a particular kind of adult. A terrorist, a peadophile, a drunk driver. But this is not true. Three children are killed everyday by that huge cross section of the population who are into that stupid adult craze of driving cars. Cars are advertised on television, there is no talk of banning cars, even though it may well end human life on earth, as well as daily child murder. One adult gets killed by artists and all children are indicted. Police are justified, people walk the streets in terror, laws are past. It makes you want to beat someone up and video them on your phone.

On suffering

2005-12-09T10:47:00.000-08:00

Hen commented to say that tears of suffering water the flowers in the Garden of art. There has often been a link made between suffering and Art. Why is this? One explanation is that in recognising one's own suffering expressed by another makes one feel not so alone. Another is that suffering leads to solutions whereas pleasure leads to apathy, the suffering artist can shew the way for the readers to overcome reoccuring human problems.
Wittgenstein says there can be no "private language" a language of one's private sensations. He talks of writing down "S" in one's diary every time one has a certain indescribable sensation. He uses scorn to show that this writing down of one's pain in one's diary is senseless and there can be no private sensations that are inexpressable. This is the green light for poets to express what seems inexpressable.
Here is my "S". I woke up in a strange part of London miles from islington after escaping from "S" in a bout of carnal pleasure, that I got into after drinking a half litre of vodka. I think the place was called Penge. I needed to be at the bar for eleven o'clock shift. I left the nameless man who I had allowed to debase me for momentary illusion of togetherness, in the midst of which I still felt pangs of lonliness. I didn't wake him, I had no time for coffee or bread. I cycled to Islington, it took two hours. Half way there "S" came upon me, an awful feeling of approaching death, but not pain, just a slight numbing on the side of my face, but that was not "S", "S" was the added judgement that there was something utterly fearful and dreadful about this slight numbness, something so dreadful that I would die if it continued, though logically I knew I would not die, but something worse, that my immortal soul would be torn assunder and the true nature of the utter evil heart of the universe would be forced upon me. This is not a good description of "S". It is hyperbolic.
I guessed for a while that "S" maybe just tiredness from cycling, but I had no sensations ordinarily associated with tiredness. Limbs - no pain - breath regular, although a feeling that my breathing was somehow wrong, causing gulping. Since I have had "S" before, I did not do anything. I knew that "S" would pass, I would not be dead, my soul not exposed to the evil heart,
I will be candid, rather than falsley modest as is requisite in English society for females. I am engaging in an artistic philosophical experiment, so there is no room for subjectivity that wishes me to present myself as underestimating myself. I am a young sexually attractive girl. I am 22 years old and I am very healthy. I am beautiful in a northern european way. I live in one of the richest cities on earth and a great treasure of culture. I am intelligent relative to my conspecifics. What right have I to suffer? What cause is there for "S"? Is it the dissappointment at the carnal quick fix that failed to assuage my spiritual lonliness? Is it that my parents were murdered? Is it that my grandmother is in need of care and thus sucks my fucking life like a vampire bat on a fucking cow. Am I that fucking cow, whining, unable to cope with "S" when, as Wittgenstein was at pains to demonstrate "S" signifies nothing? In HEN'S blog, he mentions that no one saw the mother's apology because they were all in their own private hell. It was satire because they had such pathetic problems in comparison to the dying lover who failed to join the foriegn legion. Maybe they all had "S" this awful feeling that something is wrong when nothing is wrong.
I got to work and there was the manager, a young dark haired man with a lot of machismo confidence. I know (or should I say I believe on the basis of his behaviour?) that he fantasizes about fucking me, sometimes even while he is giving me instructions. He would like to fuck me, but not so much that he will take any action. I feel that I should be able to use this information to my advantage, but I cannot. Even armed with this knowledge I cannot stop him from treating me like an inferior, from controling my thoughts and emotions with his looks, from delighting in telling me how I am not doing things correctly. There is a lull before lunch, and no customers. This is the worst time. I stand there, he looks at me, I feel a slave, I feel trapped, I cannot relax, I cannot help but be ravaged by "S". There are 7 more hours of this before I can escape. I must escape. "S" intensifies into panic and I must do something. I put my hands to my lips and dash to the toilet. I think in this way perhaps the manager will think I about to vomit and take pity on me. Being about to vomit is a shared feeling that has its place in language, "S" is not. I wonder up and down in the toilet. I climb through the tiny window and flee in terror down the back street. "S" subsides, and I walk back. I think of saying to the manager that I am going down with a stomach bug and need to go home. But will "S" go away if I go back to the furnitureless squat where my grandmother lies gibbering at demons? It may just as well go away if I stay in the bar. And I can't give in to "S" anyway. It is a nameless sensation, it signifies nothing, it is a wheel that spins freely.
Or maybe there is a psychoanalytic cause. Maybe everyone, or many people, or northern europeans, or women in their twenties, or women who have just had meaningless sex, or..... is "S" guilt in some way? I don't feel guilty.

Suffering spastic

2005-12-06T07:51:00.000-08:00

I still have no phone. I still have no fop haired protector. I am still a zombie, a golem for my Grandmother. I don't know why it is so hard, these things that everyone seems to find so easy. I went into a mobile phone shop and after standing in what seemed to me like a hideous vision of dystopic future, and began to softly cry. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. Young men from India sat behind desks talking to young women from Essex. There was no counter, there were pictures of phones but no phones. None of these modern humans came to my assistence when I started to weep. When they saw my tear stained face they averted their eyes in embarassed disgust. They did not want to even witness my ugly inadequacy, my stupid suffering. I pulled myself together and hovered around the desk of one of the Indians. He was talking incessently and at length with a screechy voiced complaining girl. I was not uyp to this level of aggression. He seemed to be selling her insurance, and offering her a contract, and asking for a credit check from a bank. I began to cry again and ran from the shop in terror, I ran all the way to my Racer and cycled all the way back to my Grandmother, who has descended into hell recently on the most daring of all of her spiritual journeys. She has become possessed by some kind of devil, but is hoping to overcome the devil with a battle of the souls. Once she has consumed this devil, she will gain its strength. She then intends to go on snow balling her spiritual power until she is mighty enough to win the greatest battle of all and destroy the prince of Darkness, Satan. Then she will have freed mankind from suffering for ever. But she needs more heroin to achieve this and demands that I sell my belove racer. She is huddled up and skeletal in a brown fake fur coat on the bare floorboards of an abandoned house. She believes she will save the world, and wants me to sell the one thing that has brought me relief. I cry again, the same helpless frustrated tears. My blood is boiling. I storm out and slam the door behind hind me and cycle cycle cycle, unsure where I am going, car head lamps a psychedelic blear. I am in Soho, angry hositile faces looming out at me. I need vodka.

Flop haired fop

2005-11-24T09:54:00.000-08:00

Had to break off the last post as will become apparent. I swooped up charingcross road and went into a dusty old book shop. I browsed through the philosophy section, panting slightly, my cheeks glowing red. I think I was flicking through the Anti-christ by Neitsche. This man embraced me feet to forehead with his confident brown eys. "Nietsche is my favourite" he said. "Favourite what? Favourite philosopher? favourite german? favourite racist? favourite atheist? favourite cripple? favourite suppressed homo-sexual?" I was spitting with inexplicable rage, but even through my pointless red mist I could see that he was attractive. He had the mock stupidity that is typically of the English Bourgouis. They think their natural superiority is embarassing, so they pretend to be idiots out of a condescending politeness. I could tell straight away that he would have sex with me if I let him. My Grandmother gave me lessons in seduction when I was a girl. She used to let me practice on her dead beat man friends in Berlin. She really thought she was a society madame, holding soirees of poets and scientists and statesmen. But really, there is nothing more to being a poet these days than having no job. So I would fuck these filthy old hippies who came round to score and get high. My Grandmother was so desperate for popularity that she was pleased that people came around with the intention of defiling her own orphaned grand daughter. Seduction is easy if you are a beautiful teenager. It is as easy to screw a confident man as it is to unscrew a bottle of vodka. The only trick is not to push to hard, and not to scare them off. Of course, there is no achievement in getting a man to fuck you. Poor lonely girl that I was, I wanted the attention. Too late I realise that the trick is to use sex as a way to get lasting affection. Once they realise that I am easy, they drop me, almost as if disgusted with themselves, leaving more lonely than before. Still, I am trapped in my pavlovian behaviour routines, so I started to play the cat and mouse games of flirting, thinking that maybe this handsome idiot would rescue me from the dreadful squalid prison my Grandmother had led me to.
I demured, flattered, flashed, blinked, touched. I was amazed, impressed, amused, lost and afraid. I became suggestive and intriguing, mysterious and alluring. Until eventually, stuttering like a fool, he invited me back to his family pied a terre in Bloomsbury for a Mocca.
Beautiful brown room! Oak panelling! He fiddled around with his coffee making gadgets while I smoked in a brown leather armchair looking at soft bourgois porn in expensive hard back. We drank our mochas and laughed at our whipped cream remarks. He explained how he was a drifter, living on the financial momentum his family had built up over generations. He let me use the lap top on the leather bound desk and I dashed of the previous post. Then he had to go. I won't say his name. He kissed my cheeks and saw me to my bike. I will have to get a phone, so I can post him my phone number.

bicycle

2005-11-20T06:47:00.000-08:00

The junkies have started taking crack now, making it much more dangerous to score. But a beautiful thing happened. One of the teenagers had brought in a racing bicycle. They have started pushing people off their bikes and making off with the bike while the rider is lying confused on the pavement. This one, the mugger,was desperate and just wnated two ten pound bags whatever way he could, but the dealer wasn't interested in another hot bike, especially not a racer. But I thought, fuck granny, this once, let her plead and whinge and have nightmares. I gave my twenty pound note to the hoody in exchange for the bike and rode out of there into the winds of Hackney.
My god, at last I was happy, pure happiness. I pedalled down the canal, weaving and skimming like the red baron. The cold air and golden sunshine cuts my eyes to tears and my face glowed. I raced all the way down to Camden, across Regents park, down Baker street, across hyde park Then back down the mall into trafalger square.

Grandmother's "book"

2005-11-17T07:28:00.000-08:00

I am 22 and my Grandmother is only 58. I have to look after her, to keep her functioning physically because she is a genius and a vehical for the spirits. In order to become inspired she needs to inject herself with heroine. She is writing a book about her astral travels while I work in this yuppy bar in Islington, taking abuse off arogant swinging dick englishmen who treat me like a sex object. But I am so lonely I like their vile attention as it is better than the drab deluded miasma that chokes the squat where me and my crandmother subsist. She cannot even score her own heroine, so I have to get it for her off these degenerate scum who also treat me like a whore. It is for this reason I have adopted this ridiculous vampish persona, I am so lonely yet repeled by my own species, I want to attract and yet to destroy my conspecifics.
I tried to tidy up her papers today while she was off "travelling" I began to read sections of this f8cking novel that is destroying my life. It was near incoherent ramblings, no thematic continuity, mundane complaints, senile drivel. I could have killed her then, strangled her to death, and ended once and for all my penury. But I could not. Her cloudy blue eyes opened as I put my fingers around her rasping throat and I felt that disgusted love I feel for her, her faded 70's glamour and her beautiful delusion that she is a great genius artist, and a magician, instead of a vain stinky old junky who is sucking the very life out of her poor orphaned ex patriated granddaughter who has to struggle for life amoungst these people I hate with the bitter teeth of a siberian wind.

helga von porno wonders...

2005-11-10T12:07:00.000-08:00

I wonder which wealthy man will feel my fangs tonight