whims rampant in the sweat-stinking room

 

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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.

only a drunkard would swallow alcohol at nine in the morning!

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Alfred Sauveur, ironmonger, owner of a house at 57, Rue des Carmes, had asked the Court for the eviction of his tenant, Lucienne Girard, as well as a substantial sum for damages and rights, for having used the rooms she occupied for illegal purposes, in this case, unauthorized prostitution.
That time, too, Lhomond had cleared his voice before putting the question:
'Do you admit the facts of which you are accused?'
She replied simply: 'No, Your Honour.'
'The plaintiff states that with the complicity of ...'
This last name he had entirely forgotten. It was that of a young girl who was actually twenty-one, but did not look more than seventeen, she was so frail, and, probably, anaemic. She did not appear. He had an opportunity of seeing her later.
'She is my employee. Your Honour. I keep a glove shop, on the premises which I have rented from this gentleman and for which I regularly pay the rent ... '
She had no lawyer and refused to engage one. On the other hand she had brought in her handbag testimonials from the local police inspector and from two other policemen.
Armemieux was shrugging his shoulders in his scarlet gown. He considered it was a waste of time to try to understand these people. Who was it who said, summing up in one word a good third, if not more, of the world's population: 'Scum!'

'Double fuck you, I'll get your fucking stick from out your fucking flies'

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“She is absolutely man mad and does not care what age or colour they are,” her mother told the court. “We have found an index book in her bedroom with more than one hundred names listed. It really all started four years ago. She was a continual truant from school and though I took her every day in the car and fetched her from the school gates she never went into school but wandered the streets. At home she was utterly disobedient and resented being spoken to. The climax came the other week when she took an enormous overdose of phenobarbitone and luminal tablets, she was rushed to hospital where she was unconscious for three days. Lately I have been returning from work and having to turn men out of the house. It has come to the point where it is all making me ill.”

spilling his "genetic wealth" on a basket filled with skinhead gear

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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

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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

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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.