|PSYCHONEUROSES by Evan Hay|
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 dreech Goodge Street station. Aleister was all in a quandary, when some stroppy mulatto bitch 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 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.
He lit a joint; it was outrageous, juxtaposing sexually alluring sorts and Christianity. A leggy mini-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 is 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 1930s 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.
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 Kleins 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 Kleins 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 ain’t seen you for ages, you old bender. How’s it hanging?”
“Tell me about it, I thought we’re going to get some heat down here now the ozone’s been blown away.”
“Don’t even go there, the climate’s one thing about this city which will never change.”
“True. What’s happening?”
“Man, I’ve been really busy. I’ve acquired Dad’s clip joints, peep shows and sex shops; now I’m developing an avant-garde nightspot.’’
“Whoa! That’s some itinerary.”
“Well, it’s business, fella, keeps me occupied with the right sort of hobbies—know what I mean? What about you, rude boy?”
“Laxing, dude—spending far too much money.”
“Splendid stuff. We must hook up—your shout of course.”
To Aleister, Manny was no more than a wide boy, and far too reliant on the dark arts of hype and spin to foster credibility. Both chaps smiled tenderly. Their enforced separation had stifled conversation a wee bit, but it was a trifle; they still loathed one another. Manny’s morose minders shuffled, staring vaguely at some passing object. As if they were frozen, their shiny black costumes had halted, but life’s momentum raced energetically throughout their dynamic leather clad bodies, causing each tit weight to jangle nervously, like flies caught in a spider’s web.
“Totally. It’ll be a mercy mission, won’t it? You’re working too hard.”
“Better to live as a blazing meteor than die old gracefully.”
“But to what purpose, or don’t you care?”
“It’s distraction, innit? I’m occupying my atoms so intensely that they’ll refuse to leave me. Life’s one big party, dude, and that’s purpose enough for me.”
“Yeah, right, man—like, what’s the end product?”
“Like that’s necessary! Does God end? Will time out? I think not. Time just keeps changing, Bro.”
What’s that happy atom malarkey all about? Just how did Manny intend to blaze brightly in his dotage? And what ever happened to serenity, honour and love? Aleister was confused; having acted intuitively all his life, he now found it nigh on impossible to think straight, his experiences degenerated, his doubts multiplied. Much of this was a result of his suicidal addiction to cheap angel dust. So, assuming Aleister had once enjoyed continuity and cohesion, life was now, by contrast, an ungovernable slide show of no fixed time span. And yet Aleister couldn’t fathom out whom it was operating the projector, nor where to find an emergency exit; some comedian was quite evidently savouring a jape at his expense, and whomsoever it was, must pay.
He and his dealer snorted up a few lines in the bog, shared a splash of toilet humour and did the Spanish Fly deal just before Piggy was called on stage. Aleister parked up at the bar, met Fagan (the thin delicate-looking figure with close cropped hair who had stood in the dock a year before was a changed man now, quietly confident, having bulked up in the prison gym—he wore his unwashed hair in a ponytail, tied back with a blue ribbon); Piggy was first up but died horribly. Aleister continued to feel awkward in the small crowded venue; it burdened him with its smoky claustrophobia, making him unusually aggressive. Worse still, the next act was some wretchedly conceited camp squirt, Curious Cecil Gruff; he artfully only half concealed what appeared to be a magic lantern. The coy way in which Cecil postured bothered Aleister no end. Who did he think he was? Jack the fucking biscuit? These negative first impressions combined into a kind of sensorium, retained by Aleister, or rather translated by memory and imagination. Sensing his discomfort, Piggy ambled across, hoping to rub balsam over Aleister’s storm-tossed forehead. Piggy respected Aleister’s honest independence, but all the paranoid instability worried and depressed him.
“What d’ya think, then, the big time or Channel Five material?”
“Magic Pigsty, always are, son, just don’t give up your day job. How about this chap—do you know him?”
“No. Nor does anyone else. A new boy; he is however the self-proclaimed King of Comedy.”
“I know it sounds radio rental, but I’ve witnessed Cecil Gruff’s treachery before—in a previous existence. And at that time famine gripped the people of Akkad who had conspired with Shamash-Shum-Ukin and plotted evil.”
Enough! Piggy’s clients were prone to puerile enunciations, so he remained silent, sipping maraschino via ruby red lips; just about every situation is sanable. As far Piggy was concerned, each chap’s concept of sub-consciousness was simply a way of explaining how structural systems have explanatory force—simultaneously unknown, yet effectively present. The question remained: what the dickens did Cecil represent to Aleister?
He gave Aleister a gentle squeeze on the inside leg and smiled. Piggy was a flirt, a proper card, a doughty lemon squeezer—Aleister was glad of his company; it steadied. Equanimity calmed Aleister, fending off eternal verities tampering with his mneme; slowly turning around to face Piggy’s glabrous countenance, which possessed soigné parity to Parian marble, he responded:
“Your round, innit, Geez?”
It was tough shit he’d sold to Aleister, it was Shamanic, coming on—coming on strong. Some bitches, even flea ridden old mongrels like Aleister, couldn’t handle deep love action like this shit. He peered into his mince pies for reassurances. The bitch seemed cool. Happily, Piggy drifted away like a trackless spore into a hot humid dusk. Cecil continued to push his luck. He displayed a barbaric propinquity toward taking the piss. His cheap rhetoric, the sly manner in which he represented society, it threw a shitty spanner into the mechanism of psychical economy, devaluing the exchange rate at its very heart.
A self-proclaimed King? Do me a favour! Cecil was simply out for what he could lay his grubby paws on. He couldn’t give a tuppenny-toss about those who may be deluded enough to follow him. In the old days folk enjoyed and trusted the rule of and protection from righteous politicians such as Thomas More or James Ramsay MacDonald, these were men of integrity and fibre who stood or fell by their principles. In ancient times more martial but equally legendary leaders flourished: Thor and Odin were brass-balled hairy guys who led from the front, demi-gods, happy, nay eager, to share everything, even their dying energies with their environment. From those golden-age heroes onwards, all subsequent governments had been as corrupt as Narnia. Aleister’s thoughts swayed toward regicide, because fundamentally (apart from that Granny shagging stuff) Fagan was spot on—any quack, quasi-prophet or tin-pot opportunist seeking to govern needs to be dissuaded in the most brutal fashion—lest the poor people suffer; for to be governed is to be inspected, spied upon, directed, law driven, regulated, preached at, controlled, goosed and censored, by creatures who have neither the right nor the wisdom nor the virtue to do so.
The Queen of England for example, who possesses arbitrary powers of life and death over her subjects, takes the preposterous title of Supreme Governor on Earth of the Church of England. How mad is that? Because in reality, in the white-hot foundry of Christ’s Kingdom, there was no property, no operationally leased building roofs capped with mobile phone aerials, no pride and precedence, no motive indeed and no reward but love. Ah, love. Now school children from the age of four are force-fed daily tales, stuffed full with ornamental and unwise additions dreamed up by the unintelligently devout, concocting a miasma which paraphrases the life cycle of a mysterious first-century Palestinian Jew—stuff and nonsense that kiddies must fit onto the same mental map as the life cycle of the caterpillar. A diabolical Cult of the Individual surrounds Queen Elizabeth, whose face appears on all legal currency and postal stamps; she enjoys numerous palaces, has amassed a vast private fortune, becoming, in fact, the richest witch in the world. What on Earth does Fagan see in her? Her every public action is lauded by a fawning and sycophantic media accompanied by orchestrated pro-royalist demon-strations; behind this figurehead an elite class of parasites rule the decerebrated majority who enjoy the traditional mark of inutile illiteracy by one of three names twice a decade (although some lucky blighters out there are procured by Palace security chiefs for the dubious privilege of being butt-fucked, hard, by Princes, whilst high on drugs).
“And now, you children of my father’s flock, is the moment to realise the insurmountable power of conviction,” Cecil trumpeted forth a mesmeric message, “battles between one’s instinctual behaviour and conditioned role bring painful confusion upon ones soul! Please yourself, people, act as you feel, follow your nature, let’s all remain real. Come! Gather now; conceive infinity as it actually is.”
Cecil produced a magic lantern and proceeded with a phantasmagorical exhibition of suggestive images, punctuated at random by ugly scenes, where he performed explicit bestial acts upon an array of plastic inflatables. Fraught with scared small mammals, acute colours and the odd processional carriage, most fantastical shapes were homorphous to humanity, yet each creature portrayed bore antlers or pointy things akin to the head of a horned mountain goat. All manner of inventive pictures conjured up a kaleidoscopic scene of emotional and spiritual depravity, eating into and becoming ever more pressing upon the mind-set of an audience agog. Tension grew; ladies of his harem cried out in ecstasy, stark was Cecil’s power. Gross manifestations emanating from CCG’s ingenious implement of veneer exposure formed a pictorial mimicry of humanity, laced with vermin, smut, scatology, and eerie religious ideology—not dissimilar from mediaeval exemplars of Judgement Day: alternative cabaret, disguising an excavation into the gauche side of life, lionising deceit and betrayal whilst seeking to disinter a primary fear of self over vast ranging horizons. Thatcherism had won; his peers no longer were willing to curb their whims and fancies. En masse, they shunned responsibility, sobriety, and wholeheartedly subscribed to those cheap tricks with which Cecil had cornered the market.
Febrile scuffles had broken out amongst white niggers in the foyer. Aleister espied Piggy’s sudoriferous armpits milling amidst the best of them—almost as incompetent as they were brutal; non-thinking easily divisible boot boys to a man, disaccustomed to harmonious mingling at an after office soiree. A section of stage-struck punters in the auditorium were, by contrast, smitten by spectacle to the point of sensualism. Aleister could feel a collective craving to edge closer to Cecil’s contraption. Cecil had turned them on big style. He’d spit roasted the lot of them by talking dirty. Now they were ready to bend over and take it where the sun doesn’t shine. Aleister guessed that the promise of requited lust was genuinely scarce fodder for most heavily taxed, hard-working citizens, and now, thanks to Cecil’s adept salesmanship, easy virtue had become a big issue of the most primary significance. The gloating horny figure of Curious Cecil Gruff, who now reminded him of his estranged father, pandered to illicit desire, played upon fear and weakness, beseeched volunteers to feast upon the pabulum of his wicked craft. Only a soupçon of sanity survived; it belonged to venerable Aleister, guardian of the adamantine anus: truly not a man to die of ignorance.
Proper leaders, ones who cared about their citizens, set the correct tone, they set the agenda—it’s called meritocracy—there’s no inheritance and the right people are elevated as a direct result of their worth to society. And that meant everybody, not just the shareholders. It’s all about pulling together, respect, boundaries and trust—not shagging domesticated animals or abusing the weak in the way Cecil promoted. His vision was no better than some dreadful divorced single or separated shag-fest where winner takes all in a bleak, lonely world full of malice, mistrust, and paedophilia. Deciphering the nuclear consequences of such undiluted evil on the rudderless in-house intelligence, Aleister corroborated his heart for battle by swigging the dregs of his pint. Picking up his ferrule, Aleister tried to get at CCG ‘of the many and gross inequities’ but was hindered in his quest by the power of darkness. A fluctuating phalange of punters, seduced into chaotic tumult, prevented Aleister from marching unto war. As the mob serried together for the grand slam finale, women bared their breasts whilst grown men chewed upon leather belts and butt-bungs.
“Hear me well, you seekers of saliva, and obey my command! Bend your knees in supplication to the true might of passion,” yelled Cecil during his rhapsodical rodomontade. “Hold hands and circle me, O relinquishers of stoical void.”
Aleister wished to scream aloud in his eagerness to halt Cecil in his tracks, yet was lost for words as an ominous shadow menacingly upstaged any notion of gaining attention. A tiny maelstrom of pastel hues appeared, growing into a racy nimbus over Cecil’s brightly painted carnival style head, spraying out across the room like an expansive roman candle, showering mere mortals with starry fairy cum. As the dust settled, an awesome three dimensional monstrosity superimposed itself so as to endow invisibility upon tonight’s barnstorming artiste: a gossamery Luciferian countenance with an erect filamentous appendage sprouting from its brow totally stole the show.
“What does he do for an encore? Fuck minors!” Piggy’s voice started Aleister, conveying the impetus required to aim a well-deserved haymaker at Cecil. Before one could utter hocus-pocus, the bounder vanished in a puff of smoke. A strange voice enquired:
“What the fuck are you doing, you nutter?”
A bunch of Muppets were staring at him; they might have purchased council houses but not one had the Aristotle to confront Aleister properly. In panic they pointed a large foam finger accusatively. Poltroon bastards the lot of them, yet consensus was remorseless. Aleister couldn’t get a handle on what was occurring. He was so out of synch with the picture it just wasn’t funny. Was he the guilty party? Is that why all his spars blanked him? Fagan had seemed contrite and many others had given him short shrift. Someone could’ve warned him if he was edging off the rails. Now who would visit him in clink? Young Conservatives? Not a chance. Aleister could no longer handle this level of rejection. At his feet lay CCG, at last bloody well mute, sprawled across the stage in fancy dress, particles of his Woolworth’s porch lantern scattered across the deck.
The resident ship of fools was about to weigh anchor and mutiny so he needed to scarper. He swivelled swiftly and nutted some character in the boat then was on his toes outside into Leicester Square. It was full of mad dogs; the acrid stench of filth contorted his expression, stretching muscles in his lower jaw as he roared back at them. He howled ripe obscenities, growling like a giant wolf from some Norse saga, stuck in his head since the infants. His stature increased until all else appeared to shatter in his wake. As he raced through the green, hundreds of pigeons took flight in unison, as if they were all tiny rockets, part of a first strike initiative aimed at destroying the planet. The population deserved it, liars & cheats every last jack. Look! There’s the Devil. Where? There. How do you know? Listen well, my friend, the light from the bulb up there in the ceiling hit the Devil and bounced off on to my retina; lots of tiny sensory things tingled in my mind. It was they telling my brain cells, no? What! Aren’t you imagining things? You’re Gonzo.
Am I bollox.
Sprinting through Coventry Street and beyond into Haymarket, Aleister realised that resistance was pure futility. Route Master number 15 bore down on him so hard it felt as if a fireball had exploded inside his chest; he could hardly breathe. As he drowned in his own blood, his sight clouded—other senses seemed to operate fully of their own accord. Energy dissipated from his being. Up above he noticed Fagan’s drunken face leering at him.
“Life isn’t fair, Aleister, not for you or me, leastways. The likes of us, see, all around the world, we’re suffered: purely to be exploited. Even my mate the copper was fucked over. They dropped him like a hot potato when they discovered he was bent. Disposable, see? They terminated his career—twenty nine frigging years! His corruptible tendencies had gone undetected during routine security screenings. The truth? Only guttersnipes know that. And you done good, son. We can’t let self-proclaimed royalty like Cecil Gruff take liberties. I would have done the same, boy; only you beat me to it. Those wankers down the front lapped it up like pussies, thought he was the dog’s bollocks, some kind of fucking deity; whilst the working classes, the English working classes! They fought amongst themselves as usual. Fuck ‘em. Still you got him OK. Now stay calm, mate, I’ve got something tasty for you before you go.”
After wobbling a wee bit Fagan gradually genuflected, holding tightly onto Aleister’s hand. With due care and attention he produced a small wet pink object from his torn pocket.
“Here, I extracted Cecil’s insolent tongue. I would have tampered with his sphincter had I had time, but you know, been there, done that.”
This final act of innocent if demented compassion soothed Aleister—as death engulfed him, his last selfless hope was that his time on Earth had not been spent entirely in vain, and that his crushed, dismembered body would at least become sustenance to the dogs, swine, jackals and eagles; utilised by scientists for pathological research, profited from by medicine heads, sold abroad illegally, fed to the birds of the heavens or perhaps the fish of the deep.
This is wisdom.