If you lived in Milton Keynes, you'd be on drugs too.

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Rubin's one-dimensional attitudes are even more glaringly evident as regards the murder of Holly Maddux, who appears to have been killed by her boyfriend Ira Einhorn. Einhorn was a hippie activist who involved himself in ecological and new age politics during the seventies - he was a very prominent figure in the Earth Day and Sun Day events. Rubin was a friend of Einhorn and used to let his Philadelphia based comrade crash at his New York pad when 'The Unicorn' was visiting the Big Apple. In The Unicorn's Secret: Murder in the age of Aquarius by Steven Levy (Prentice Hall Press, New York 1988, p. 335), Rubin is quoted as saying: 'Ira betrayed everything I stood for and possibly everything that he stood for ... The ultimate crime ... is that Ira betrayed the sixties.' Rubin's fatuous self-regard is evident from the fact that he considers it worse to tarnish an abstraction with which he identifies himself - "the sixties" ­ than to batter another human being to death. The back cover of The Unicorn's Secret features a prototypically callous puff from the media conscious Rubin: 'The Unicorn's Secret blew me away. Besides being an unforgettable murder mystery, it's a fabulous study of our time. I really loved it.'

a considerable figure in London’s late night quest for kicks

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AS I WALKED through the night I got to thinking about what I had seen… I got to thinking why things happen in London at night. For twenty-five years I had seen these topsy-turvy people come into clubs at the hour when respectable people are going to bed. For twenty-five years I had seen men and women do crazy and unlawful things in the hours between midnight and four or five o’clock in the morning… I thought, too, that maybe these queer and sometimes frightening hours were the cause of all the crazy things I had seen. Perhaps when midnight passes and you’re sitting in a club listening to the music, drinking too much, and watching sexy floor-shows while some painted harlot with her eye on your pocket-book is pressing her thighs against yours; perhaps at these times there’s a madness steals over you, a derangement of the brain that vanishes with the dawn.

sex books took their place where the Gideon Bible used to be

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It was not the boys but the girls, our sweet little baby daughters, who were leading the fight for sexual freedom. Without pregnancy or VD to hold them back, they were asserting their sexual equality—and with a vengeance. If you looked on the dance floors of the 1960s, it was our darling daughters who were making those wild pelvic fucking motions. The boys just stood there, clumsily gyrating and drooling, waiting for the girls to work themselves into a state of horniness and drag them off to bed. It was our daughters who blew the double standard to smithereens, who destroyed the cult of virginity by the simple means of equating it with leprosy. It was the girls who had their ears pierced, stopped wearing makeup, discarded brassieres and girdles, showed their thighs and asses and tits with bikinis and microskirts and see-through blouses. They memorized the Kama Sutra as though they were cramming for a final exam, and then insisted on practicing and perfecting the arts of love. It was the girls who saw through Holy Matrimony, saw the way their parents really lived, the droning boredom and the lovelessness. The girls had our number; with all our fooling around, with all our suburban sexual sophistication and promiscuity games, we were still uptight puritans.

Dave flipped on the stereo and the Cramps came oozing out

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His band was a well-oiled rock 'n' roll machine: two drummers, two bass players, two guitar players, full horn section, and Little Richard's grand piano front and center. He strolled onto the stage to a hard-pumping vamp, wearing what is best described as a purple chiffon shower curtain. His hair was about three feet high, and he had on more eye makeup than GG Allin and Alice Cooper combined. With the help of a couple of younger, more masculine bandmates he stood on top of the piano and signaled for the music to stop. He had something very important he wanted to share with the audience. "WHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" he squealed. "I AM THE BEE-YOO TEE-FUL LITTLE RICHARD!!!" He gave the band the signal to continue, hopped off the piano, and began banging away at a positively pugilistic version of "Bama Lama Bama Loo." After that he slid through a set of greatest hits, whooping and hollering and only occasionally stopping to proclaim his greatness or make some sort of vital non sequitur. "Look at my hands!" he screamed. "Aren't they bee-yoo-tee-ful?? Can you believe I once had to wash dishes? Me?? The Georgia Peach??!! WHOOOOOOOO!!!"

Mariconda and I had a little powwow before we left: we promised that there were to be no more bags of mystery pills on this jaunt, and no excessive day drinking, either, just our regular short beers for breakfast and however many bottles of Rioja were reasonably needed to wash down some typical Spanish lunch - say, four. Or maybe five, if it was paella day. And then maybe one, but only one, of those kooky coffee-and-brandy concoctions. But that was it until sound check. Unless we were holding some coke, and then perhaps a small line. But only as a digestif. After all, we weren't animals. We made no promises that we'd stay sober, but agreed that we'd try at least to wait until the sun went down before we started to get seriously weird.

THE GREAT FUCKZINE WARS

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Dear Una,

I realize you don't write a column of advice on good manners, but what do you think of a lady who, when you're exhausted and already have a headache from drinking, plunks her ass down on your face and rubs herself off with your nose? My friends and relations are in disagreement about this.

Gus, GM, over 21

Dear Gus,

First of all, that's no lady, that's your wife. Heh, heh. But to get down to the nitty-clitty, as it were, essentially my column is about good manners, since manners are consideration, and successful sex, whatever your bag, is a matter of learning to get along to everyone's mutual satisfaction. Failure in bed is rude, ducky. And it seems to me you are the rude one to get so exhausted and drunk you can't gratify your lady fair. Unless your nose happens to be more lovable than your cock, in which case she's not being entirely deprived - and all you have to do is hold your breath or breathe through your mouth. Pussy hairs are an excellent filter for polluted air, they say. As for your friends and relatives, they will never never agree about your sex life anyway, so keep mum. Lie there like a man. And keep your nose clean.

Una

"Sorry mate, it's all got a bit of fladge in it."

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'We might as well dance,' says Steve to Wonder Woman. 'How about the Batusi - Batman's latest?' They are obviously an in-group - Batman in his cape, Cat Woman in her tight black body-stocking, Rubber Man in his black rubber frogman's suit, Plastic Man in plastic, Sheba, Queen of the Jungle, in her giraffe-fur bikini, and Wonder Woman with her steel bracelets like a pair of manacles; all of them stamping about in boots while grotesque school-teachers wielding canes stalk snivelling Searle-like boys and girls, and they, in their turn, skulk round setting booby-traps to hurt, humiliate, and ridicule.

“He wants me to talk dirty and he'll be licking my legs like a dog.”

 

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“The bedroom was a mess, crowded with clutter and filth. The floor was strewn with clothes and papers, blank music scores, half-eaten hamburgers, and even apple cores and popcorn. The bed was in disarray where the body had been covered with a blanket, bedclothes flung about and the sheets were stained with blood. We even found traces of blood on the mattress covering. Other areas of the house yielded more bloodstains, even on the edge of the desk in the bedroom. There were bloodstains on the door and walls and on the headboard of the bed. We discovered bloodstained clothing in a washing machine, which we figured to be clothing worn by Spade Cooley. The garments were sent to the crime lab for analysis, along with a .22 caliber rifle and a kitchen broom. The furthest end of the broom handle revealed what appeared to be traces of bodily fluid and Vaseline.”

“…if you find us guilty we’re going to keep giving you the finger.”

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This was the world Al immersed himself in, a shadowy realm dealt with in the most mysterious and ominous fashion in movies like Midnight Cowboy, Taxi Driver, Hardcore and countless others. These films did much to shape the popular perception that these clubs and twenty-four-hour theaters were dens of degenerate filth, and that the people who ran them were murderous psychotics. It was an urban mythology that middle America bought into with great enthusiasm. Bullshit, one can almost hear Al say in his slightly lispy Brooklyn accent. Of course there were plenty of bad guys involved, that’s because the consumer had no power in this game and there was no regulation of the trade and no pride in delivering goods and services. These were things he was trying to change. This idea that the sex trade was by nature inherently morally evil was the biggest con in his book, a misconception nurtured by politicians and special interest groups on the right who sought to keep a hold over their constituents through the power of fear.

There was a time when pornography was dirty and exciting and illegal

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But by early '69, Screw was so successful on the newsstands, it made Myron Fass irrelevant, driving his whole dreck factory, and others like it, to the very bottom of the newsstand. The sexual revolution was exploding. We embraced a huge market no one knew existed. What was missing from Playboy centerfolds, sexploitation films, automobile and cigarette ads with sex was simple honesty. We soon had imitators on the stands. Screw was not an evolution of men's mags, but a counter-reaction to them, especially the "acceptable" sadomasochistic tabloids. No one was mutilated or beaten in Screw. Screw was part of the underground hippie counterculture emanating from the East Village, a few blocks below our office. Sally Eaton, from the cast of Hair, wrote in Screw, "I think fucking is the friendliest thing two people can do. . . . America is such a deodorized country that we have to surround something as simple as fucking with romance."

Characters up to no good from every slum within subway fare

 

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Times Square's most miserable, ghastly forms simmer in a witches' brew along Eighth Avenue from 39th to 43rd streets. Here are the official dregs of society, the scum of the earth, the lowlife's lowlives whom Mother Teresa wouldn't bother to save. A Puerto Rican pre-op transsexual stabs a trick in the eye with a sharp fingernail to grab his cabfare before he pays the driver. Brain-damaged evangelists rave aloud to themselves; 300-pound hookers flip out their hooters to stop traffic. Old shoeshine uncles give "spit shines" with more phlegmy bile than polish. Neardead human vegetation take root in their own excretion in condemned doorways — most of them have slit pockets from scavengers searching for their wine-bottle change. The drug-pitch skells would rather tear off with a wallet than transact an actual exchange, and they make the teenage chicken fags seem like the most discreet commodity on the street. Fifteen ghetto guerrillas wearing Pro-Keds (what transit cops call "felony sneakers") swoop down on a victim, then scatter back into subway oblivion.

THE SECRET WORLD OF BLUE FILM FILTH

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The windows are always crammed full of American 'girlie' magazines. They're tame enough, glamour stuff like those dreary pin-ups put out by Harrison Marks. You go inside the shop and you're starting to see nipples now and air-brushed crotches. Hang about here for a while and look serious enough and the manager will ask you if you would like to 'come out back and see something stronger?' He lifts one side of the counter and you walk through to the back room where the real action is. Here rows of photographs are kept wrapped in cellophane in packets of five in long wooden trays. The trays are labelled so you can go straight to your partiality. JUVE is old streetwalkers dressed as Girl Guides or in schoolgirl uniforms being rogered by Sir. LES or LEZ is lesbian stuff. FLAGE is flagellation and sado-masochistic material. PERV is girls dressed in rubber and tied up, or a white girl being screwed by a black guy, while STRAIGHT is a white couple doing it missionary style or side by side (but certainly not doggy style). That's it. Sometimes you may see some BEST[-iality] which demonstrates that a girl and her dog are not to be parted, but you'll never see any HOMO. You'll have to go to Paris or Port Said for that. This London stuff is produced by straights for straights.