Psychedelic Shack by the Temptations was blasting out on a hi-fi

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MR SELF-LOVE AND DRUNKENNESS
'Patience!' Macinnes spat. 'Patience! Don't berate me with the values of the adult world. I'm not some ageing stockbroker and I don't like being told to wait for my kicks. Deferred gratification is the credo of the suburban middle classes, not of the juvenile delinquent seeking thrills. Because I am cool my acts and attitudes do not require any form of justification or explanation. I purely and simply embody rebellion against authority without the necessity of recourse to verbal articulations. If you want to join the new world of teenage rebellion then you need to follow my example and like me learn to embody its truths.'
'You're not a teenager, you're a middle-aged drunk,' Norma observed.
'Drunk, yes!' Macinnes roared. 'I'm drunk on life drunk on kicks, drunk on this new teenage world of action and ultra-violence. I'm drunk on cool. I'm the Jesus of cool. I gave teenagers life and speech in my novels so that they could forever bask in the icy silence of cool ...' 
Macinnes would carry on in this way for hours, blissfully unaware that he came across as a refugee from the 50s who was utterly clueless about the new hippie fashions that were emerging from the womb of swinging London.

'God, this is so boring!' Rose announced. 'This guy is useless. His technique is completely lacking, he's just a clumsy oaf. He couldn't satisfy a nymphomaniac who'd been stranded on a desert island and hadn't encountered another human being for the best part of a decade. This slob doesn't know how to eat out a woman. He'd have difficulties licking up the remains of a plate of custard.'

the accounting was filled with as much fantasy as the novels themselves

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Editor, Daily News,

Well, now that the forces of decency have finally asserted themselves in the case of the movie, “Lorna,” I feel it’s my Christian duty to alert the citizenry to the same type of degenerate smut that exists in our public library: not in Greenwich Village or other places of sin and iniquity, but right here in good old Lebanon, PA. Well, here we are fortunate enough to have a newspaper which fights on the side of good and righteousness. The book to which I refer is “Candy,” by Terry Southern. Now, I haven’t personally read this book, but a friend told me that it is the worst sort of smut he has ever put his eyes upon, and is an abomination to every God-fearing individual. Innocent children, into whose hands this book might possibly fall, would be done great harm by reading it. They are always the ones who are hurt, our young people. To imagine that it is allowed in our public library is difficult to understand. The atheists, fellow travelers, communists, and communist dupes who write this sort of thing should not be allowed a place in our community. Christians, unite in this great season we are now enjoying and purge these atheistic elements from our midst.

The Holy Warrior

Each of the Pink Fairies arrived bearing the head of a dead pig on a pole

 

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Other staunch allies in combating the mod/skinhead problem were a motley bunch of Jewish East Londoners known as the Firm. The Firm were ex-mods themselves, but of the earlier, stylish variety whose twin dedications were music and creating mayhem and chaos wherever they went. Led by the dire duo of Peter Shertser and Ian Sippen, the Firm had taken a bunch of acid, but managed to retain a highly mutated version of the traditional mod obsession with making and spending money. They’d grown their hair and now dressed in sharp, custom-tailored suits of the most outrageous fabrics they could find. These bespoke monsters were made by an elderly tailor in the East End to whom they would present lengths of William Morris curtain material and demand that he sew it according to the same pattern as a three-button Tonik. At UFO, the Firm’s capacity for confusion and disorder reached inspired peaks. They spiked a number of people, attacked the more disorientated hippies with water pistols and let off an assortment of fireworks right on the dance floor.

as we danced I could feel the shape of his strong thigh on my mound

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Art, the aesthetic of the flesh, the cultivation of leisure, are despised, tolerated, perhaps, but basically thought of as not quite respectable. Love in the west thus becomes hysterical, almost epileptic. Everything is computed in terms of time, so much time for this, so much time for that; it must not be ‘wasted.’ Geared for industry, those stupid westerners never pause to analyse the word ‘waste.’ Time is accepted without question as valuable; like money or land or food, it must not be ‘wasted’; at the end of an hour one must have something to show for it. The question for them is: What ‘excuse’ for passing the hour in such and such a way? If one can produce riches at the end of the hour, then the time has not been ‘wasted.’ But if one has merely derived pleasure from living? If one considers living important – in itself ? The western God, the Jewish God, was invented to make the hatred of life logical.

her crotch was my God and I considered myself lucky

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She lifted the skirt of her nightdress high above her smooth white belly, exhibiting the dark maw of her sex and the hairy spider of her navel.

"Get up," she said. "On your knees! Look at it!"

The huge chunky thighs were as white as chalk, anastomosed by the black tendrils of the web. She hitched the front part of her skirt above her waist and sat down on the edge of an armchair. Her big fingers opened the lips of her vagina, exhibiting the orchidaceous flesh, pink, oily, obscene.

"Touch that," she said huskily, "and you won't get away again...."

I gazed from the flower to the spider. The craving ran like a plague through my body.

"Your lips," she said. "Like you were praying...."

I lunged forward.

"Lick it," she said. "You're like a little pig!" And I was, and that was precisely what she wanted me to be, and so she told me I was, and so I was.

The soft flesh radiated warmth and wetness at my face. "There's your pigsty," she whispered, caressing my neck with her fingers.

"If you get Sohoitis, you will stay there always day and night."

 

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The Colony Room Club at 41 Dean Street was originally the first-floor reception room of a domestic dwelling built in 1731 though now much altered. The space retained its domestic proportions which is perhaps why people felt so at home there. Muriel sat perched on a high chair at the far left of the bar, next to the door, head tilted back to display her fine aquiline nose, imperiously waving a cigarette in a long holder as she barked ‘Members only!’ at anyone she didn’t recognize. This was quickly followed by ‘Fuck off!’ if they did not turn immediately to leave, followed by ‘Get a face-lift on the way.’ Members, however, were welcomed with an endearing: ‘Hello, cunty!’ She was a formidable presence; one afternoon a local gangster entered the club looking to set her up for protection money but he had barely announced his purpose before Muriel screamed: ‘Fuck off, cunt!’ so loudly that he backed out of the door and down the stairs.

gangsters, cheap dance halls, dens of obscene immorality

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The novel opens, shockingly, with the discovery of the crucified and mutilated body of a woman on a Spanish hillside. Framed by the literary device of a ‘found manuscript’ and an anonymous narrator, the action shifts to the Gorbals of 1916 and a brutal confrontation between the Razor King, John Gault and his own son. Perhaps one of the most fascinating aspect of the novel for a Scottish reader is the recurring references to the milieu of that famous — or notorious — novel No Mean City by Alex McArthur and H. Kingsley Long. Published in 1935, that had proved astonishingly popular though condemned as cheap trash by the established and the literary world. Some sections of the novel are neat parodies of some of that earlier fiction’s worst excesses and there is an obvious similarity in the respective protagonists’ names; John Gault and John Stark. The writing, especially in the Glasgow section, is raw, naturalistic, graphic and forceful — almost Trocchi at his most considerable best, while the shorter London and Spanish sections seem more diffuse and almost melodramatic.

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The children swarmed in the broad streets between the grey cliffs of the teeming tenements, and a priest, lashing himself to frenzy outside a drinking-den, called the curse of heaven down upon the unknown landlords and the wrath of God upon their ragged, drunken, lazy and immoral tenants. They stood and laughed at him. A young woman, who held a blanket loosely about her dirty nakedness, tipped a bottle of "red biddy" to her mouth to drink the priest's health, and staggered back to the brothel from which she had emerged. There her lover of that evening, who was a Catholic and even drunker than she was, beat her most brutally for mocking the church. And all the neighbourhood chuckled over the quaintly unimportant episode.