Showing posts with label Allen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Allen. Show all posts
This is the land of knee-tremblers and wee bastards
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whims rampant in the sweat-stinking room
Carole Latham reviewed her campaign in Soho without enthusiasm. She had
discovered from the first uneventful moment that the nut she was expected to
crack refused to yield to any pressure applied. The inhabitants of London’s
depraved ‘square mile’ didn’t cotton easily to suggestion. Not unless it
happened to fit with their drug, strip, porno, drinking way of life. She’d
found the area dismal. Lacking the colour some American magazines liked to play
into top features. The people, too, lacked life with a capital ‘L’. They went
about their humdrum tasks with a listlessness and counterfeit-ness that shocked
and amazed. Jaded was her word for them. Beyond hope. Beyond redemption.
Outside understanding. She
remembered most the number of guys who’d tried to seduce her. Creeps for the
most part. Kids still sporting their acne and pimples. Kids sold on ‘grass’ or
the mind-blowing ‘H’. Kids drifting aimlessly through Soho’s narrow streets,
back alleys. Kids used by crime’s overlords. Kids flogging body and soul for
the elusive kick, the great dream.
spilling his "genetic wealth" on a basket filled with skinhead gear
I recently got an
excellent write up in the London Review
of Books, which is enormously prestigious among the literati, and as a
direct result, a great many 'influential' people have suddenly decided that I
must be a talented writer who needs to be treated with respect. These people
are incapable of forming opinions of their own, they simply venerate those
writers who've been handed accolades by others. The vast majority of those who
attain positions of 'responsibility' in the publishing industry feel deeply
insecure about their ability to do the job for which they're paid, and quite
rightly do not trust their own powers of judgement. This fact partially
accounts for the abysmal state of British publishing, which is run by twats who
are more interested in social climbing than creating a vibrant culture.
Snobbery is second nature to these cretins, grasping the movement of
post-modern culture is completely beyond them.
Thankfully for the ex-skinhead his diarrhoea responded to medicine
The busty blonde doing
her weary strip had her audience yawning in their seats. Flinging a soiled
brassiere at a balding man in the front row, she swung her breasts in a
circular gyration that, for a few seconds, created a slight stir. But when the
tassels attached to her nipples came to a halt the boredom set in once more.
'Bloody pathetic,'
Boots Welling mentioned. 'I've seen better performances behind a block of
flats!'
Chris Shay nodded
sleepily. 'Let's get the hell back to The Swan. We don't need her type of
stimulation.'
Boots smiled to
himself. He certainly didn't. Chris had been the enthusiast, drooling over the
nudes pasted to a board outside the sleazy club. All the arguments against
going inside at an exorbitant fee hadn't put Chris off.
Usually, the crowd got high on weed, or booze, or a combination of both
epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer
What with booze and weed, ‘The
Crackers’ soon were rolling in the aisles of degradation. Blissfully partaking
of nature’s habit-forming aphrodisiac, the mob needed no verbal communication
in order to manifest their base lusts. It was Satanism at its worst - the
worship of the flesh in all its glorious climaxes.
Tom lay on his back, flesh coated
with perspiration. Sybil straddled him, her eyes pleading. ‘Please, Tom ...
once more!’ His eyes rolled, his lungs hurt as
he tried to gulp air. It was an affront to his vanity that Carole, and now
Sybil, had both seen fit to mount him. The man should be the aggressor! He felt sore,
ineffectual, depleted.
"Blimey. Only 110 pages and still it requires considerable fortitude on the part of the reader to see this one through. As mentioned before, the casual racism of these books is pretty damned hard to read around, and the gang-rape of a Jewish woman doesn't make this an easy book to like. The first seventy-five pages are devoted to the misadventures of The Crackers, a teeny gang from privileged backgrounds who follow Arsenal F. C. When they're not bashing men and molesting women, the gang devote their free time to drinking Haig in their clubhouse and a variety of pubs on Hampstead Heath. There's a power-struggle between head Cracker, Tom Walsh and his would-be usurper, Benjy, and their attempts to sort out who's the hardest become increasingly desperate. Just as things are getting a bit monotonous, Tom remembers that he's been interested in Aleister Crowley for years and decides that Black Magic is the answer to all the Crackers' problems, otherwise they're just a bunch of skinheads with hair. It does get a little livelier as the boys dig up a corpse, orgy in the grave, desecrate the church and chant weird spells. But then you realise that all the violence has done awful things to Tom's brain because he's having an instant breakdown, and Allen seems keen to wrap everything up and churn out the next one." - Demonik.
He was a Mod. A snazzy dresser. A gear-mad, disco-loving today's kid.
Joe somehow couldn't get a feel for Soho's many streets with their sex
shops, restaurants catering for global tastes, gourmet food stores and pubs.
The kind of people roaming those vice ridden streets got under his skin. City
gents on the prowl for a live show featuring professional sluts. Kids seeking
thrills and a quick route to the grave bartering for a supply of pills or a
shot.
'Do you have anything to offer?'
Joe fixed the man in the eyes. He would never be a student of ordinary people's
behaviour patterns but Robin Capes was far from normal. There was a criminal
aura radiating from him. Plus, of course, blatant homosexuality! Joe didn't
care if the bloke was a poof; as camp as a gay lib leader. Joe recognised the
illegal streak governing Capes's every action.
a fully permissive society, girls swearing on a par with riffraff dockers
He
didn’t have a perverted bone in his body. He loved it ordinary. In huge
amounts. She was fast boring
of his one-tracked mind. All he needed a woman for was sex. Sex, sex and more
sex. He had a machine complex that demanded total subjugation to carnal
desires. Three, four, more times a night did not strain his abilities. There
was nothing between them beyond this physical gratification. No communication.
No great area of conversation, or ambition. Dazzler loved his woman naked, on a
bed, ready to provide for his pleasure. He sat back and rubbed his gut, eyes fixed
lecherously on her breasts, Joan knew that his instincts were probing back into
jungle caverns where his caveman ancestors had belched delight over a dinosaur
offering before partaking of the cook’s fleshy delights.
‘Forget that!’ she
snapped.
‘You gettin’
uppity?’
‘I’m getting rubbed
raw.’
‘You’re goin’ to
fuck-off, eh?’
‘I’m not just a receptacle for your prick!’
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