A lawless brat from a council flat, a little bit of this and a little bit of that

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

“They must have been a bunch of toughs assembled from the rougher end of Kilburn, used to playing the sort of pub where women fight as well as the men. The singer, using the microphone as if it was some form of surgical apparatus, sported a curious Mohican haircut and a battered drape jacket. He looks like a greased back, squat Lou Reed, but Lou Reed never looked quite as oppressive and sinister as this. One side of his body is paralysed but this never seems too overt up on the small stage. His suit is probably from Brixton Market and his shirt and tie may just as easily have soup stains on them as not. He wears black leather gloves just like Gene Vincent used to, chews gum constantly and never opens his eyes. The other members of the band appeared to be wearing sacking. One hesitated to push through the crowd in case a group of enthusiasts were comparing flick knives in the stalls.”

the Stones’ favourite inhabitants of the underworld applied pressure

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

More disturbing, though, was the incident at a family party when a young mother asked him to keep an eye on her child who was sitting on a potty, while she left the room to take a telephone call. As soon as she’d gone Litvinoff took the potty to the lavatory, where he sat on it himself and released a huge bowel movement before nipping back to seat the child in place again. When the mother returned to find what her toddler had apparently produced she was beside herself. In later years he would complain to friends of a lack of support from his family but if some relatives began to keep their distance, one can understand why.

fucking jackass bastards are everywhere. The world is full of pigs!

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

I carry my two books to the counter, wondering what bookbuyers around me would do if they knew I’m the author of fourteen published novels — a great artist. They’d probably mob me, beg for my autograph, touch my magic coat, and the pretty young girls among them would try to stick their tongues up my ass. But I can’t say anything — it’d only stamp me as a braggart and a hack. Besides, intellectuals have contempt for books like mine. They don’t realize that the great archetypal hallucinations of our times are contained within so-called trashy books, while literary establishment authors like Updike, Barth, Roth — that ilk — are effete dilettantes who should be teaching lit courses in colleges, and in fact many of them are, the scumbags.

“Well, Mr. Phillips, I believe I might have syphilis.”

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

waking up the next day to read newspaper columnists describing him as “morally degenerate,” “primitive,” “lewd,” “obscene,” “suggestive” and “vulgar,” with one even saying that he looked as though he’d been doing a striptease with his clothes on. They also said, once again, that he couldn’t sing, and that he was leading kids, by way of rock and roll, into juvenile delinquency and drug-taking. The newspaper barrage went on for weeks, wherever he played. As much as the fans would scream with excitement, newspaper pundits, teachers and preachers would howl with rage.

you are prime vegetable for every piece of meat that wants to beat you

epub / mobi / pdf, with thanks to the original sharer

Vice is a strange part of the job. It's basically a lot of people doing what they want to do. But you have to draw the line somewhere and it's not really my job to draw the line. Somebody is going to draw the line for me and then I go out and try to keep everybody in line. I hate to think that's my job in life, to go around telling guys to cover their buns and girls that they can't show their boobs and that you can't go out and get a friendly handjob now and then. But the line has to be drawn somewhere. I go into this massage parlor, I got undressed and laid down on the bed. She massaged my shoulders and then rolls me over and grabs on. I'm embarrassed, and there's basic physiological responses that you can't stop. You can't consummate the act, because then you are a willing participant. You lose your case. So I'm laying there and she gets me turned on and she grabs ahold and I push her off and walk over and start getting dressed.  I go outside to get my partner and my badge so we can come back in and arrest them. But I found out that it is entirely ludicrous to stand there with a raging hard-on and try to convince somebody that "I'm really serious and you're under arrest." 

"Here is courage, despair, hope, sacrifice, sex gone crazy, and the most violent kind of brutality ... in COPS, Mark Baker has given us the most readable, riveting, and memorable book ever written about law enforcement."

- Harry Crews

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

epub or mobi

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.

juke houses competed with the church for the community’s dollars

pdf, with thanks to the original sharer

“Sonny Boy would get too advanced. This white woman in Little Rock, she like him, and he was in her house taking it easy. He has his shoes off, and a white man came by. Sonny Boy, he left there running. Me and Elmo was going back home in my old car and we ain’t seen Sonny Boy. Elmo was saving, ‘Where’s Sonny Boy?’ And I was saying, ‘I don’t know.’ My radiator was leaking and stopped by a ditch to get a little water. Sonny Bov calls, ‘Motherfucker, open the trunk and let me get in!’ He was hiding in the ditch there.”

This is the land of knee-tremblers and wee bastards

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

"I want you to get on your knees, eat my pussy like a rat eat cheese."

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

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.

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

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

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.

"Sunday's the only day we have for a really long fuck."

pdf, with thanks to the original sharer

He was asked why he wished to join the bank. Christie was lost, could not think of his answer. One was shortly supplied for him: most young men joined the bank for the security, for the very liberal pension which amounted to two-thirds of whatever salary the employee was receiving at retiring age. And this retiring age itself was as an act of generosity sixty, and not sixty-five! Not only was Christie simple, he was young, too, a few weeks past his seventeenth birthday at the time of this interview. Christie was silent even at the information that he had only forty-three and not forty-eight years to wait before he was free ... Christie had expected to have to work hard, and to find the work both uncongenial and menial, at first. What he did not expect was the atmosphere in which he was expected to work, and which was created by his fellow employees or colleagues as they were in the habit of calling one another. This atmosphere was acrid with frustration, boredom and jealousy, black with acrimony, pettiness and bureaucracy.

smoky dance-halls, the meeting places of thieves, spivs and prostitutes.

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

He got to know a blonde hostess with whom he fell in love. For days on end he was away from his room in Montmartre, his wife and his monkey. The strange new life he led with her had effects that were as enduring as they were beneficial. In the space of a few months, he acquired an elegant bearing, decided to dress in the approved manner. Soon, though, he was back in his little room in the Place Emile-Goudeau, back with his wife and monkey.  Those Montmartre hotel rooms! The foreigner who frequents Gay Paree sees only the blazing neon signs along the Rue Pigalle, the social round, money flowing as freely as champagne, the women who hang about street-corners, the dance-halls, the dancers. But like those of Marseille, or any other town, the Montmartre hotel rooms are small and square, their flowered or striped wallpaper torn in places. A yellow or red satin eiderdown covers the bed; net curtains hang drearily down each side of the window, through which more dust than light comes in. The faded covers are flecked with cigarette burns. The enormous cupboard holds all the tenant’s belongings and in a shady corner a screen masks off the washbasin.