Out there, slouched under yon lonely Ash tree, grooving to Yiddish related acidic house, he greedily interfered with a lap-dancing Norn. Pungent little sort it was; halitosis, thick Irish accent, decked out in crotch-less knick-knocks, peephole bra, and dishing out plenty of extreme close up. Bending over backwards it was, chomping his knob raw, yet falling asleep prior to eruption. What a tease. In revenge, wearing a raincoat on his pecker, he was shunting her up her dirty fibrous butt like a jackhammer; oh, it was exciting all right, just a pity dour fate decreed that Aleister never would get to blow his Old English. Up jumped a troll, soliloquising ten-to-the-dozen, clocked Aleister and threw a wobbler. "It's all over son, you've blown it, and now it's rustication time."
Think of an occasion when you personally had to deal with either a challenging situation or a difficult person. What was the main concern, how did you tackle it and what were the consequences?
"I was supervising my twin albino Badgers whilst at play outside our cosy suburban home whereupon I noticed a silly argument boiling over between nine or ten adolescent lads nearby. Two pretty boys, well known to us, were apparently being bullied. My initial concern was that an unruly fight might endanger my babies. We prayed for a peaceful resolution, but a sudden escalation in aggression resulted in a nasty free for all. I gamely intervened in an effort to assist the nicer tykes- shouting aloud that they were our friends and that this violence did no one any credit. A craft blade was produced- stabbed into my thyroid- I lost consciousness. It transpired that the big ugly chaps had then carried me shoulder high at a canter before gleefully throwing me through my own kitchen window. Consequently, I underwent five full emergency blood transfusions in order to live with disabilities for the next three years, in therapy, relearning to think- move- speak- or even toilet unassisted."
Next thing, he realised he was alit, retrograde, and losing the will to live at a dreich Goodge Street station. Aleister was all in a quandary, when some stroppy mulatto bitch, reeking with rank fetid breath, in a blue winceyette uniform, hurriedly goose-steps across the lack lustre platform. "Can I see your ticket?"
At this juncture her curt question was as senseless as low alcohol whiskey or fealty to a tyrannical demesne, love under will, chicks with dicks, decaffeinated coffee, an unelected yet constitutional monarchy, Roberto Calvi, woolly Liberals, Molly Sugden's grotesque shaven pussy- whatever. So Aleister, as fey as you like, answered calmly in ancient Assyrian, and with a skilfully measured dignity- he produced the necessary, if sullied, credentials. Her hostility flamed undiminished, still now was not the time to go for the jugular; it could wait a wee while. With a cruel promiscuous stare from her lazy jaundiced eye, the misshapen famulus crawled back to her dark master.
Stone me! That was close; somewhere along the line he'd taken a wrong turning. Festooned by oily beads of sweat and timorously suffering all sorts of oesophageal reflux, he rolled a fat fag- liquorice paper- trying to gauge the extent of this, his most up-to-the-minute mental lapse. He meandered, scurrilously, into the reassuringly bathotic Auld Smiddy tearooms off Berwick Street; its mock Vichy architecture the scant relief to an excruciatingly naff light entertainment recording of burlesque French missionaries, clumsily pursuing a comic crusade against porn. A caricaturist cast burst at the seams with light weight double-entendre; wanton, yet distinctly naïve mini-skirted waitress's sported stilettos and Hi-Vi stocking tops- each girl squeezing sun ripened honeydew melons into plunge-cut silk blouses, advertised a synthetic take-me-from-behind coquetry.
"Un tasse de bohea s'il vous plait Mam'zelle."
Checking his bins, Aleister felt relieved to grope a plenitude of coins of the realm- three worn black ribbed condoms, plus friable complimentary tickets to Madame JoJo's, from whence hallucinogenic drugs sent him on a mission to Yggdrasil: a right schlep on the Northern line. Occult Hindi messages garbled from the driver's cab terminated the train; he's popped out for an eyelash, inexplicably spending the night frottaging with a swarthy trog from Kilburn. Sweet Jesus! He'd monster snogged his two-bob missus Aoife, numerous times: hot tongues inside ruddy mouths, smooching and slavering; culminating in staccato, ultra-smelly sex, with both zippers closed- he hadn't climaxed mind, so he'd probably be okay.
Psyche.
He lit a joint; it was outrageous, juxtaposing sexually alluring sorts and Christianity. A leggy short-skirted factotum, bearing his order, enquired after the state of his soul- you're having a laugh. Was she a Bertie? Doubt it. Give us a wank. He blushed, picked up the linen draper and hid. It was all kicking off that summer- still, not nearly as perfervid as the previous one: then there was Goose Green, and consumer riots, whilst Aleister's old school mate, Mickey Fagan, transmogrified, a tad unexpectedly, from sardonic gamin into a rather star struck Palace prowler. Aleister was loath to jump to conclusions and yet it occurred suspect to his circumspect reasoning that Fagan's alleged torch crimes, and ostensible double-trespass, his national notoriety notwithstanding, carried no legitimate conviction; despite seemingly thorough journalistic investigations, no one appeared able, or willing, to corroborate any clear facts. Each new report differed in detail from its predecessor, resulting in farce, miscarriage, and a palpable economy with the truth. Yet still, Fagan, the madman, had ironically been housed at Her Majesty's Pleasure.
Aleister himself had acquired an insight into the scenes behind the story, having once enjoyed the fellowship of Fagan and a few of the saga's key players, a year or so before the scandal belched. In the company of a big knob from the Royal Protection Group, a dope named Rauch, and some crazy wandervögel from the Canaries, the posse had set out to rip it up on a drinking binge in and around the political nexus that's London N5. Aleister's recollection was frayed; he'd gotten badly mashed and grown inexorably attracted to the witty Spaniard. By the time they alighted at The Famous Cock Tavern, Aleister lost it completely, quizzing the young caballero about Norwich City Football Club. Amid acute embarrassment, it was comprehensively pointed out that he'd sorely misunderstood the guy's allegiances; he wasn't the least bit interested in football. Neither was Aleister. He went for a leak, recovered his composure, before returning to the fray, which was heady fare by anyone's standards. And by this juncture Aleister had heard enough seditious gossip to develop a healthy appetite for intrigue, especially state endorsed crimes against the proletariat. Even so Aleister felt vulnerably powerless; he dare not ever imagine fighting the powers that be.
By way of contrast, Fagan had long harboured a passion for dynamic revolutionaries or urban guerrilla types (especially those prepared to go the full nine yards). He was fascinated by social inequality and class war, positing: following sedulous consideration, who the hell wouldn't rebel? Certainly, Aleister had experienced little enough titillation from trickle-down economics, nor his environment, nor his parents; poor folk, two frenetic wage slaves, base, little-or-no hopers, scunnered by a lifetime's penury. His depraved bearded father buggered off early doors - (bye) - & whilst dear mater kept the hyenas at bay, there was precious little time for levity. Unsurprisingly he'd never felt loved or wanted, more like he was some dusty ornament, a token curio from an ephemeral affair. Aleister only aspired to the warm union extant between Fagan and his mum; their relationship was not openly unconventional, yet Aleister sensed an intense, abnormal aura- a kind of primitive joy. Aleister and Fagan's mutual, Piggy, the no-nonsense smiling pragmatist of their friendship group trio, trashed such remarks as pure bollox, counselling Aleister to keep schtum or face extreme consequences.
Quick with his fists, violent and territorial, Fagan smack-battered each of his pink step-dads purple. Piggy viewed all such acts, as a natural will to power. Piggy eschewed ideals; his heritage wasn't wealthy enough for disposable fancies like idealism, although his parents did stick it out together, if only to celebrate a silver jubilee. It was an incredibly understated party, gay beyond belief; cocktails with a few under-whelmed friends and pasty faces from their 1930's terrace. Pigsty's nonchalance was typical of someone whom had always enjoyed the love and commitment of a close family; he simply took it for granted. Aleister cried, Fagan danced a well-rehearsed tango with his old lady, and gin slings washed the shores of dawn. After old Mrs. Fagan died, her only son grew increasingly obsessed by the notion of a wholly vulnerable, crudely infibulated woman as head of state- it agitated and excited him in equal measure. What otiose airy-fairy protection was afforded her majesty by the tightly wrapped Prince Regent? Fagan gradually placed QE2 upon the same questionable pedestal as his own mother; a trophy to vile, inhumane men, offering little or no emotional support. He envisaged Elizabeth, fist fingered painfully before being brutally sausaged, Greek style; crass sexual fantasies deranged what little sense remained, rendering Fagan unsure whether to fuck or fight his adversary.
National Press reports stated that Fagan was eventually tackled by a brave footman, Phil McCavity (since retired) a chap who remains oddly reticent concerning any personal involvement; his London Lighthouse carers insist that McCavity wouldn't say boo to a goose. Fagan would though. A noble savage, lightly polished by association with a variety of smoothish operators- enamoured perhaps by the cut of his jib. It was a ragtag and bobtail organisation, but he had been earning a few quid at the time, so it was right mauve him rocking the sloop, what with three million unemployed. Directly preceding his iconic faux pas, he'd violated a by-law. Housing association interns complained about his pet- as it transgressed his tenancy agreement; Fagan swore blind he didn't harbour one, although a particularly cynical girl-next-door insisted she investigate. Behold! No fish or fowl, whilst Mickey, without any noticeable trace of embarrassment, loudly boasted that those noises resulted from him beasting a string of low maintenance lovers. Not one to be duped, the nosey neighbour insisted she put his explanation to task; so doggy-style, Mickey howled like mad and banged her so hard he got a nose bleed, earning himself the sobriquet Rudolph. Still unsatisfied, the dopey tart opted to sue him for noise pollution via the local authority.
"Bloody Hell, ma'am, what's he doing 'ere?"
A shrill alarm call was sent ringing around Westminster by HRM's flummoxed chambermaid, having stumbled across Mickey, supping, allegedly, from half-a-carafe of half-inched California Riesling. How exciting! Let's face it; Fagan was in no fit state to endure the resulting ordeal. That very day he'd been involved in an aggravated family squabble over a second hand motor, and, traumatised, was temporarily masquerading as Rudolf Hess: for reasons best known to himself. No sober assessment of his condition would have adjudged him capable of scaling spiky railings, climbing burglar proof drainpipes, or, least of all, leaping from roof-to-roof like an orang-utan. Tell me, just how did Fagan elude palace security? And what precisely was his shady sadomasochistic relationship with Prince Philip? Whose puce bruised bottom, rumour has it, was treated by that gross royally benighted Arse Specialist Dr. David Croft. Croft, famed for being the quack that'd pioneered cosmetic, mostly platinum, ring holes for dab happy celebrity coke addicts, or at least the ones who wanted to keep their bugles intact. Word on the street was that the iron Duke had been rimmed repeatedly until his blistered sphincter resembled the kind of swollen Jack and Danny hanging agape behind a sweaty West African baboon come rainy season. Of course, it was a cover up, although Fagan did confess to several prison psychiatrists that he had toasted better genitals. So, whisper from that, what tenuous conclusions you may. The Old Bailey Central Criminal Court certainly has done.
"You are not 'ere to see the peeping show I 'ope?"
Her horny French accent wafted a frisson across his prostate gland- intimidated- Aleister nevertheless laughed off her accusations that he was tuned into torrid commercial sex, featuring exciting glimpses of nudity featuring barely hairy teenage call girls on the run from Social Services. He casually cased the joint - eye eye - wandering past a grandiose art nouveau mirror; he cast a vicious moue or three at his faltering baroque reflection. Did he so resemble an unbalanced pervert? If so, he'd best buy a pick-me-up, as he daren't come across as unhinged, or worse- creepy- in Heaven (his preferred destination) where geezers must dress to impress or at least appear classy, as competition is bristly stiff.
A kiss without a moustache is like an egg without salt. Yuk!
Opportunely Piggy, now his dealer, was due live on stage at the Comedy Store matinee; he was odds on to hold a few banging party tricks up his ropey sleeve.
K-I-D, mum's the word.
Aleister decided to procure something a little bit special to slip into Mademoiselles café latte so as to loosen up her movements. Shame he needed to date rape her; she possessed several aspects sweet enough to buoy his horribly warped tri-sexual mind- if only she could button her lip and turn a typically blind eye to his eccentric affairs of the flesh. He may even propose to her: anything to leave a lump in her throat.
Walking along Gerrard Street, he chewed a chunk of Peking Duck, formally deciding that he could never endure monogamy on account of various innate needs- bimbo's, priapic saunas, pepper corn rent boys, Qabalistic weekends, ritualistic blood drinking sessions etcetera- hobbies of a type so essential for a relaxed later life. But she, despite the cheap façade, was prim and proper. Add assertive female to Catholic, teetotal or God forbid- virginal, and who needs it? Aleister did want desperately to love and be loved in return; the problem was, where to start? The glorious day was fast approaching when he would freely subscribe to a competitively priced Filipina marriage agency- an avenue where easterner's flourished- but tells me, where did those inscrutable Chinese err? A tough adaptable species granted, fit to survive a homogenised global social system yes, but in eugenical terms, they are junk people: so square looking and business like, not at all to Aleister's flighty eclectic taste.
Across the way stood Immanuel Klein, a chap who abhorred all things ci-devant, he hadn't changed, not really, he was still a cunt; a right fashion victim, philosophising on the topic with all the brio of an art-house radical- a radical wanker naturally. A few years previous he formed a musical combo, Futurist Punx, extolling beauty in strife. They got into bed with a scary ex-military cove, Brigadier Robert d'Alby, he a small-time impresario for fledgling anarchic voices. BRd was a real brute, pretty mixed up actually; he had all the army baggage- pent up aggression, institutionalised homophobia, instincts to attack something or someone on behalf of a manly ideal. Nevertheless, he remained intriguing, a complex egg, BRd seemed to seek a noble form into which he could pour his volcanic energy. An accomplished painter, a cubist, he and his easels simply disappeared one day, never ever to return. Without the insensate Brigadier at the tiller, the band petered out. Aleister recollected a few trite lines from their one and only 7" entitled Self Portrait: "We shall sing the love of danger/Flying fist-fuck up the arse/ Courage, movement, hard rebellion/ sniffing glue in the park."
It was pompous tosh really.
Thank you!
They booked a few shite gigs, at local workman's clubs, awkwardly on the bill alongside traditional Irish ballads. Manny boasted he was waking up the punters from their feverish insomnia; he glorified violence, cruelty and injustice, but shat himself and ran for his life when he was repeatedly glassed in the toilets.
Nowadays he happily weltered amidst a disreputable orgy of sensual gratification, surrounded by heavies done up in leather, rubber, and shiny PVC. These were all disciples. Body harnesses, panic hooks and meat tenderisers eradicated any notion of revolt. Their overseer was a heavy mouth breathing automaton; responsive to his masters needs alone. He dealt severely with any backchat or obstinacy, lashing out with his personalised sauna whip, which along with an executioner's mask, constituted his vestments of office and tools of domination. He himself was kept firmly in check by an erection trainer, subdued by nipple clips, and held silent by an adjustable velvet tongue gag.
Manny's family started in Soho's vaudeville era, working hard in the early days to found a loyal and stable base upon which to build. The Klein's struck lucky. Embroidered into such an organised and fluid tradition, they were happily on hand to cash in on the sexually liberated Cabaret boom after World War Two. By enthusiastically promoting liberation, lies and rebellion from the tight closets of inhibition, camping up revue bars and befriending the repressed, Manny's family had won renown and favour. Still, not ones to rest on their laurels, the Klein's remained sharp enough to cut out a lot of old associates- dropping the mantle of freedom fighters. Conversely, freedom now required paying for, and any customer was appreciated, no matter how rancorous.
"Manny! I aint seen you for ages you old bender, how's it hanging?"
"Chilly."
"Tell me about it, I thought we're going to get some heat down here now the ozone's been blown away."
