to get away from the pits and the factories, all that cloth-capped bullshit

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When the scene was at its most vigorous there was this tremendous search for obscurities, and a lot of great records surfaced as a result. But after a while, the chances of discovering some old masterpiece diminish. I started Northern Soul but I actually found the music very limiting because in the early days I’d play a Charles Mingus record, then I’d play a bluebeat disc followed by a Booker T. tune, then a Muddy Waters or Bo Diddley record. Gradually there was this blanding out to one sort of sound. When I started DJing, I could play what I wanted. But after three years I had to keep to the same tempo.

mum was not a square, she bleached her hair & had massive knockers

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When I wasn’t conducting deviant sexual experiments with high-powered vacuum cleaners, the work with Benham’s usually involved servicing boiler rooms up in the West End. But the one job which stood out involved heading north into the wilds of Willesden. There was a Wall’s sausage factory up there, and I remember having to see them slaughtering the fucking pigs. These weird dudes with aprons covered in claret were doing the deed. The strange faces these guys had – they looked like lunatics. The pigs came in off a lorry and got shuffled into these little pens, then the geezer would put the big electric prong on them. Before there was time to see if they were dead or not, they’d get hooked up by their hooves and sent whizzing up this fucking conveyor belt with their back feet at the top and their heads hanging down. First they went through this furnace which would burn all the skin off, then they’d be washed clean with jets of water. The poor cunts didn’t stop on the conveyor belt till they were in a packet. I remember watching up to the point where the geezer with his big knife slit open the stomach and all the fucking claret came out the middle of it. That place was just a fucking hellhole and I’d never seen anything like it. Not even when Chelsea played Leeds.

"I was a mod and we used to go and fight the grease and ’ippies"

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‘I used to be in Crowney’s bedroom on a Sunday night with ’er and every five minutes someone would be banging on the door. Now why would they do that if they wasn't a bit jealous? They were, everyone was just that little bit weren’t they? I’ll never forget the time when I was fucking in there, wasn’t I? Trousers down round me ankles and this cunt’s pushed the fucking door open, ain’t ’e? Now you imagine yer trousies round yer ankles, you can't walk. I just fucking flew across, pissed as arse-holes as well, on the fucking floor laying there. I couldn't move. I fucking struggling, it was like being tied up it was. No, we used to ‘ave some fucking great times up there.’

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.

a fully permissive society, girls swearing on a par with riffraff dockers

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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!’