"Groovy, baby - like man, the place is really wigging out."

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He takes the mike from the stand.

"Wow! Look at all that Blue. Is there anyone out there that's not a policeman? Ah - I uh, seem to be under a little pressure tonight to cool my act. See I was arrested on this stage a few nights ago for saying an eleven-letter word. I'm not going to repeat the word tonight, but - it starts with a c and ends with a g. Now they said it was a favorite homosexual practice, I don't relate that word to homosexuals. It relates to any woman I know or would know or would love or would marry. All right - their whole scene was that Dirty Lenny said a dirty word. So anyway. I'd like to ask you a few questions. Now let's get really honest. You sir, have you ever had your blah blahhed?"

The guy's cool. Maybe he doesn't come out and say so but he's smiling.

"O.K., how many other guys in this room have had their blah blahhed?"

The judge ought to be there - not an obscene word all night.

Maybe eight hands in the air, but not one cop. Lenny gives one the stare. "Comeon now officer - you're under oath remember," and his people are getting their own back. "O.K. Lady, what about you? Did you ever blah a blah?"

Oh boy, does she do a freeze. She looks at the soles on her shoes and waits for Samson to pull out the pillars. Nevermind, the guy with her breaks out a big affirmative nod, and the crowd goes bananas.

"You know, I think I'm doing the dirtiest show in my life. Now, if anyone here has found this obscene, then you're full of blah, and I hope you never get your blah blahhed again."

He's pulled it off.

Most people never hear of such sordid, immoral subjects. Unfortunately.

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The average “customer” would be appalled if he knew how thoroughly his habits, requirements, shortcomings, and idiosyncrasies are known and broadcast among the underworld runners and the underworld girls. Thus, in Soho the message would be: “Deebeej is in town. Tip off the pussy-girls and slapparats.” A slapparat is one of the persons known as masochists. They are very numerous in England. There is no question whatever about this particular psychological twist, but Queen Victoria and Mrs. Grundy do not allow the matter to be discussed. Which is a very good thing - from the point of view which is common to all underworld people. It is good for trade! Slappy-tarts would not have been of any great interest to Deebeej. Because, as I have mentioned, with Deebeej it was a question of religion. Thus, when the word went round that he was in Soho or in Montmartre, no-one wasted any time. They did not send beautifully dressed, seductive courtesans to cross his path, and they sent no perfumed boys to brush against him. They passed the word to the right people. 

The most fantastic and quite incredible stories were current about what Deebeej did. This, among people who were normally quite incapable of being shocked, and who regarded the weirdest perversions pragmatically, in the way of trade. Deebeej, with his dark, flashing eyes, his quiet commanding voice, and his superb composure, struck terror into pussy-girls, slapparats, chiv-men and ponces alike.

hanging around the jazz clubs in Soho, a right tearaway, a right raver

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What can you say to people who uphold the right of adolescents to sleep together in coffee bars and have purple hearts for breakfast?

IT is suggested sometimes that drug-taking among teenagers is just another facet of current junior fashions, one more piece in the bewildering jigsaw of mod-rocker beach battles, frenetic pop scenes, sad, sexy, little basement discotheques, kinky boots, thigh length skirts and weirdy hair styles … “I know one bloke who hates the Stones, when he's normal. But once he has had a smoke, he's really gone on them. Just sits there, drooling over the record player, like as if he's going to drag it to bed and rape it. It makes me feel sexy, too. Makes most people that way, really. Particularly the chicks. I spent a summer down in Southend and we used to have pot parties on the beach. We'd bring down a record player and dance all night and then bed them down on the sand.”

out of ten men nine were perverted in some way or the other

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The next day Johnnie and Ding-Dong came. We went to a blues dance and before we came there we could hear the sound system bleer out loud. As we went in we had to pay 5 shillings each. The air was smelling of bodys swetting in the small room where it was mostly coloured peopel and white girls. I couldnt hear a word Johnnie was saying to me. Count Suckels Soundsystem it was written across the Jukebox thing standing in the corner. A big, broad, ugly coloured man stood there changing the records. 

We went out to the part that was the kitchen and got a couppel of lagers. "Is this a club?" I said.

"No," said Johnnie. "Its a family living here, but they make some money having a blues dance and selling drinks."

"But where is the furniture?" I said.

"Probably out in the back yard."

"Do you still have to make love to a woman and get paid for it?" I said. "If you come home with any other v.d. to me that will be the last you do in your life. Thanks to you your own child almost turned blind, they fought in the hospital for tree weeks to save his eyes, because you have to satisfy your own lust, and tell me you use rubber when you go with anybody but me. But it was all lies, wasent it? And if I find out where you spent the night, I kill both her and you, for you are not making a fool out of me ones more."

There's a coloured singer they're catching on to called Prince Buster

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The Junction Boys go dancing at Whisky-a-Gogo or the Lyceum. We all took purple hearts, marijuana and hemp. Oh, and brown bombers, which are oval tablets, half brown, half yellow. They keep you awake. You can get them at the Junction. We meet at someone's house, draw the curtains and shut all the doors and windows, and play Blue Beat records and smoke drugged cigarettes.

No-one says anything about queers any more either, no-one ever says 'Oooh' to anything, they just say 'Oh, yes?' and it doesn't mean anything, no more than when old squares meet and say 'How do you do?' I think old people are ridiculous, anyway. So phoney, everything they do is false. I'm rude to my mum and ignore my dad, and that's how it should be.

Herbaceous borders are not your idea of life, they do not fit into your particular scene.

In the clubs of Soho the current dances are the Block and the Bang. The Block is a glorified Shake, rocking sideways with a rotary hip movement and the top of the body bent forward. The Bang has more footwork and a sideways crab movement.

The ton-up boys meet at a hot dog stall by a car park. Or they gang up at Smoky Joe's all-night café…

I'd hate to marry a Mod, they're not men at all really. When there's a punch-up they fight like girls. My boy's ambition in life is to do a ton down the M1. He'll do it, too. They say the Rockers are scruffy, that we don't wash. I'd rather not wash than be mistook for a prissy little Mod girl. You know what Mod stands for - moderation in all things. What a way to carry on. If any friggin little Mod girl is looking for a punch-up I'll be happy to oblige. Happy? I'd be delighted.

Any lunatic can put on a dog collar and go around telling impressionable kids that they've got to do this and that. It must be something about wearing a dog-collar that works them up into peculiar sexual states. G-strings and dog-collars, what a combination. School was daft, they don't teach you nothing there, and church was dafter. You can't enjoy yourself in church, not like anywhere else.

kids twisting in their seats to the music, screeching like young savages

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Franklin lazily smiled at me. "You wanta get your balls off with one of my broads?"

I couldn't speak. I couldn't believe what I was seeing ... not only Franklin and  the nude girl but what was partially revealed through the open bedroom door ... a naked Negro boy and Negro girl engaged in intercourse ... a Negro boy pounding on bongo drums ... and a red-haired mulatto girl executing a sensuous dance.

"Franklin, what in hell is going on here?" I asked heatedly.

Franklin burst out laughing. "What's the matter, Teach? I thought you were smart, Mr. Brent, but you must be pretty dumb to pass up a hell of a good piece of mighty tight ass like Clorinda here!"

I moved towards the door. As I opened it, I heard the boy laugh giddily and, pulling down his shorts, he grabbed the girl and giggled, "Come on, let's show 'im how it's done, baby! Maybe he don't know!"