Showing posts with label Slang. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Slang. Show all posts
This is the land of knee-tremblers and wee bastards
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"I want you to get on your knees, eat my pussy like a rat eat cheese."
Eddie
was committed to partying and "acting crazy" as a way of life.
Attempts to get him to "clean up his place" (translation: "get
rid of the niggers") were greeted by him with total contempt. He
antagonized police, other club owners, and anyone else he considered
"square," and reveled in his own defiant stance. After two in the
morning, when bars are supposed to be clear of patrons, he would lock the door,
draw the curtains, and party with the players, laughing, loud-talking, snorting
cocaine, and serving drinks after hours. "Ready Eddie," as he was
known, presided over what he proudly dubbed "the Toilet of the
Street." He had no intention of running a square or respectable joint and
was furious at the predictable official attempts to force him into compliance.
"They just want to get my friends out of here," he would bellow,
"they don't want no niggers on their street. Well, fuck them punks in the
asshole!" This attitude was well appreciated and respected.
the result of a meeting of forensic scientists and law enforcement officers
pdf, with thanks to the original sharer
APPLES Fellow addicts
BENDING AND BOWING Under the influence
BIG BLOKE Cocaine
CAUGHT IN A SNOWSTORM Drugged with Cocaine
CHICKEN POWDER Amphetamine powder
CHOCOLATE CHIPS LSD
FRESH AND SWEET Out of jail
FUZZY TAIL Police
GO IN SEWER Inject into vein
MR. WHISKERS Federal Agents
SHIT Drugs in general
STRAWBERRY FIELD LSD
WORK THE LEATHER leave a place
Charlie Parker is the squarest thing on the jukebox
epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer
The intersection of
beat and "ethnic" circles can be seen at its warm-weather wildest in the hundreds of people
who on Sunday afternoons gather round the children's wading pool in Washington
Square Park.The inner circle
consists of people who arrive by 1:00 P.M. and thus get seats on the rim of the
pool and on the steps leading down into it; this circle is a mixture of
early-rising square Villagers, many of whom have brought their children to
wade, and beats who get there early because they've been up all night. (The
beats used to get high and roll around in the pool with the kiddies, fully
clothed, until the Park Department enforced the rule restricting the pool's use
to those under 12 years of age.) Surrounding this is a second, standing circle
of clusters of folk and hillbilly performers and their listeners: uptown
tourists and new-style rich Villagers, "ethnic" teenagers, Italians,
a few beats. Around this is a third circle, also quite mixed but consisting
mostly of beats asking each other what's happening, tourists with cameras
trying to elbow their way into the second circle for a good shot, and
tight-trousered Village homosexuals walking their dogs and cruising each other.
Most people never hear of such sordid, immoral subjects. Unfortunately.
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.
‘What this needs, dear boy, is something a little more risqué.’
‘I
have got the Royal-fucking-Suite, dear boys and it is only fitting that we
celebrate our success in the royal manner. Seeing as it is my birthday I wish
to make a speech to mark the occasion. First, I must thank you all for being
here. Then I should point out that we are occupying the Royal Suite and I
suggest that we comport ourselves accordingly. So, dear boys, I give you a
toast: raise your glasses … and chuck them at the fucking wall!’ With that,
Moonie hurls his heavy crystal goblet at a beautiful gilt-framed mirror above
the open fireplace. Then he grabs a half-empty champagne bottle and slings that
at a chandelier, which comes tumble-tinkling down. All the while, Moonie is
screaming: ‘Royal Family? Richard
Burton? Fuck the lot of them! Who gives a fuck about any one of them? I’m Keith
fucking Moon.’
'You dirty little sod ... you want to make it with a dwarf.'
epub or mobi
He
was a lovely guy, used to have a queers' club in the Haymarket, before the law
changed, and that was where I met [names of famous stars deleted] and Shaky
Sheila, who ran three clip-joints. Soho was always dangerous. It was dangerous
in those days, when you had the Italian gangs and the Maltese; it was dangerous
when the Krays were there, and it's still dangerous now with the Chinese.
Soho has always been a dangerous place. There
has always been sex and violence, with people disappearing without a trace. Nothing's changed, only the people who run the show.
Most of the punters who came to Soho got what they came for. Sometimes you'd
get the odd one who was a bit cheeky. Then I'd have to give 'em a backhander
and tell 'em to get on their bike. The girls would come down to the pub if a
geezer was causing problems. You'd get these guys who were quite happy being
silly until they had to pay for it. I'd sort them out. No one asked them to
come. ...
Last time I was in the nick for anything
serious was in 1980. The same time another feller comes in called Hugh
Cornwell. Said he was lead guitarist with a pop group called The Stranglers. He
had been done for drugs offences.
'I'm Hugh Cornwell,' he says.
'Oh,yeah.'
'I'm with The Stranglers.'
'Big deal!' I gave him a bucket and a brush
and told him to clean the floor. No mop. Just a scrubbing brush. And he did not
like it. I tell you: HE DID NOT LIKE IT!
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