An Interview With Klaus Barbi

Location: 'die endgültige Lösung' Ranch, 125 Clicks NW of La Paz
Weather: Stinking Hot


Note: To simplify matters, I have taken the liberty of removing German phraseology, and, at Herr Barbi's insistance many names have either been changed, or simply initialed, Herr Barbi is not the kind of man who would rat out his friends or goose a passing peasant boy just for fun. The comments in this interview are not necessarily those of the interviewer, publisher or any other loosely associated third party. Herr Barbi's rights remain in the Bolivian jungle until the day he is finally extradited to Paris on trumped up charges and paraded before a kangaroo court of lesser specimens.


TLK: Herr Barbi . . .
KB: Herr Altman.
TLK: Yes all apologies, Herr Altman, thank you for your time & hospitality today . . .
KB: Huh, I have all of the time in the world, & then some my foolish friend.
TLK: Of course, now, if I might begin . . .
KB: No no, first we must talk of the sex change.
TLK: What?
KB: It was Herr, uh, ah fuck it, the Angel, yes, it was Herr Angel's research & procedural techniques that permits you to sit there in front of me today pushing our your titties, are they real?
TLK: Uh, yes, but . . .
KB: Could I feel them, for verification purposes?
TLK: Maybe later, but first . . .
KB: Who did this work to you?
TLK: What work?
KB: Come come my cherub, no need to be shy around uncle Klaus, we are both men of the world, ha, my apologies of course dear frauline.
TLK: No problemo, but look, I think we ought to address more pertinent matters than anatomical parts . . .
KB: But my child, there are few more beautiful things than how you say . . . pointy, no, perky, yes! Like the pigs eh? You know the pigs?
TLK: What?
KB: The pink swine, they sing you know, and dance too, yes, dancing pigs!
TLK: No, I don't know them, are they some kind of secret police?
KB: The pigs? Ha! No, although now you come to mention it, your breasts have a wonderful curvature to them.
TLK: Well thanks again, is there a woman in your life Herr B---------- Altman?
KB: NEVER! Women are the sporn of Satan, no, no women in uncle Klaus's life.
TLK: A boy?
KB: WHAT! How dare you, as if a former high-ranking official of the n . . .
TLK: Nazi party?
KB: I know nothing of this organization, nothing I tell you goddamnit!
TLK: My apologies Herr Altman, I did not mean to insinuate.
KB: Have they done your bottoms too?
TLK: My bottoms?
KB: Yes yes, you know, your wurst eh?
TLK: My wurst?
KB: Goddamn this incessant heat is intolerable, yes, your, what you say in gringo, your doodle eh, your sausagemeat?
TLK: Oh, that. Well, I think that's my business Herr Altman don't you.
KB: In the uh, the uh, the uh, the uh, vacation camps, many tried to cut off their own doodles & some doodles got cut off, that's the thing about doodles.
TLK: The vacation camps?
KB: I saw about them on discovery, no wait, history channel, vicious bastards those Germans, eh?
TLK: You're not German?
KB: Never! I am a citizen of Bolivia, always have been, yes, I pay my goddamned taxes & abide by the law, such as it is.
TLK: Are the laws tough here?
KB: No, no laws, but the police are swine.
TLK: They harrass you?
KB: Constantly, for currency.
TLK: Extortion?
KB: Uhm, execution?
TLK: They try to execute you?
KB: They could never do it, I have influence, now, about your doodle eh, show me it dear girl, show uncle Klaus your doodle, perhaps I can help, I know many idle surgeons eh?
TLK: That's very kind of you Herr Altman, although I think the state of my doodle is my business, don't you?
KB: Why no! You are a fascinating creature, the world should see your doodle, it will make many old men from Ber---- Budapest very happy!
TLK: Budapest is in Hungary.
KB: From when?
TLK: Uh, from about ever.
KB: The swine!
TLK: Who?
KB: Whoever put it there goddamn them all to hell, & my god, this heat is merciless.
TLK: But you would be acclimatized to it no, being Bolivian?
KB: Ah! Yes, of course of course, but it is still merciless, the heat, and Budapest.
TLK: Budapest is merciless?
KB: Why yes, it always was, as I recollect.
TLK: So you've journeyed Herr Altman?
KB: Indeed indeed, for many years, many many years, yes, like uylesses.
TLK: Very interesting. Where have you traveled?
KB: Nowhere, of course, I have never left Bolivia, home sweet home eh? Home home on the range, where the drugs & the drugbarons roam eh!
TLK: You know of this, drugs?
KB: I know nothing of it beautiful frauline, come, show uncle Klaus your perky titties eh?
TLK: That would be the final solution then?
KB: WHAT! How dare you mention that filth in my home, I know nothing of it.
TLK: Not from Budapest?
KB: What is this fucking shit with Budapest? Who cares about it, where it is, where it was, where the fuck it went in-between eh?
TLK: It didn't go anywhere Herr Altman.
KB: So you say, indeed, and Berlin?
TLK: That never went anywhere either, apart from to shit.
KB: Sad sad times, for some, I presume.
TLK: Is that a pistol in your hand Herr Altman?
KB: Or in my pants eh! This? Yes, this was a gift from Herr . . .
TLK: Hitler?
KB: That filthly little Austrian peasant hah! I spit on him, phew.
TLK: Can you stop waving the gun around Herr Altman, you're making me nervous.
KB: Or excited yes? The nipples never lie my sweet honeynest.
TLK: Pot.
KB: What?
TLK: Honeypot, not honeynest.
KB: Well yes, if you insist, now, the titties eh?
TLK: Uh, please don't point that pistol at me Herr Altman, or that either thanks.
KB: But the heat, the itching, the sweat, dear god.
TLK: Is that loaded?
KB: This, or this?
TLK: Both.
KB: Oh yes, only an imbecile would wave an unloaded gun about, eh?
TLK: It is rather warm actually, & oh my, look at the time I really must . . .
KB: But first I think, you have a little something for uncle Klaus huh?
TLK: Uh, no.
KB: But I insist, you see, I am a man of simple pleasures frauline, as you will learn, and now, if you don't mind . . .

MAGGOTLAND

i am infested
being consumed alive from
the inside out & vice versa W vice
in a vertical black shaft
devoid of cathode light
refusing digitalism
my sight fades
as the copulation tempo
rises
ambient temperature
for proliferation
i see god in a little black dress
at happy hour
wearing a davy lamp
hawking AK47s
& dodge trucks
to cubists
economists
parricidalists
& fatalists
sipping redolent swill
with beautiful swine @
saline communion
give me ammunition
oh dear lord.

ha ha ha crime always pays

yeah, mayb get a life, if not yrs, sumone elses huh? learn to write, swallow subjectivity, learn i dont care what you say bcoz you're no-one to me, livin in yr bedroom postin blogs bout writers & reviewers & dodgy crime books & thinkin ure sumthing big wen ure you're really small, infinite, a nematode, a toad, a thing my intestines process - you are a fool, a bigtime fool, megafool, so keep on writin behind those drawn curtains bcoz no-one really gives a flying crap babee!

TED & JEZZ

to really get a head,
i need a volkswagon beetle
my arm in a plaster cast,
a sailboat (imaginary)
a ballpein hammer,
plastic ties
the ability to lie cherubically,
i need to be charismatic
approachable, respectable,
i need a politician's smile,
a tradesman's guile
no remorse,
cold blood & a hunter's patience.

to really get some heads
i need a hand saw,
my own apartment close by
a fish tank: a reliable deep freeze
50 rolls of clingwrap
i need to learn home lobotomy,
a little extra-curricular activity,
to dry-root this monotony
i need to locate one night stands
who give good head,
but who also, don't object,
to losing theirs, immediately
thereafter.

SERIALLY YOURS

suck on this . . .
X will mark your wet spot
maybe chalk, maybe lavae,
everything is on the operating table,
when i see you
walking your dog
i think about
amputation without anaesthetic
dont speak when i'm speaking
i have a staple gun,
industrial strength duct tape,
a hood with no slits at all,
i work by feel alone – holistically
that highpitched squeal of yours,
at friday night confession,
drives me insane, skitzo-frenetic
why do you think cordless power tools were invented?
open wide & say aghhhhhh . . .
see this cross i've made?
in my basement
why not let me nail you to it, say next sunday?
it's a guaranteed weight loss program, no shit,
i kid you not, would i lie?
say you love me baby, one last time . . .
before you have to go . . . to the crawlspace,
i know
i know . . .

All The Nice Girls (& Even Some Who Ain't) Love A Salty Doll

I have had occasion recently, to hike out to the Pavilion at Wayville land, to watch the Adelaide roller derby in action. It was the notion of chicks on rollers indulging in hand-to-hand combat that interested me, being, as I am, a girl of simple tastes.
Though, to be honest, there is not much simple about roller derby. To the virgin spectator, it looks like a mad melee (on wheels), of rough house chicks, going around and around, with absolutely no point to it whatsoever other than voyeurism, which, in fact, is a point, I immediately realize. They draw a fair crowd, an assembly of wayward types: hardcore lesbians, lesbians-in-waiting, boys who like lesbians, and lesbians who like other lesbians, if you get my drift. All-in-all, it is my kind of place. I like the American-esque atmosphere, the razzmatazz, the over-dry hot dogs and the cheap wine in plastic glasses. It is all very trailer park, what with the half-time skateboarding, the hot wheels line-up, getting down and grubby with a fistful of Dolls, Dies, or Roadtrainers in the crap house. Girl sweat is kinda pheromonal.
Obviously, my redhead has to go for a different team, why, I have no idea. She is into the asthetic, the grace, the physicality, and thus, she errs toward Pistola Balboa and those argy-bargy Mile Die girls, whereas I, taking the femme role some divine diety earmarked me for, naturally lean toward the floatilla of sailer girls in cute blue cheerleader skirts with a more graceful style. Of course, as soon as I start to follow a team, they go to pieces. I am yet to see my Dolls win a catfight, despite their most valiant efforts, but, this lady is not for turning. Normally, I miss the first half anyhow, stranded as I am in the food queue, nonetheless, the whole night is definitely one for the girls, and that, in a town woefully short on contact sport spectacles for certain kinds of broads, is the crux of my point. Oh, and by the way, you can arm-wrestle the roller chicks post game, and, mingle with them at the after party, if that is, you don't mind a sideswipe or two trying to get to the bar! As expected, I am still in the bloody hot dog queue - writing this piece!

Redheads @ 8 O'Clock!

I knew writing that Batwoman piece was tempting queer karma, double drat! the old adage of one redhead to a bed, came back to tramp stamp me on the arse. My times, they are a changin', and, as per, I'm wrassling fate and that slippery bitch is winning. Still, life goes on, and on, and on: city landmark hotel, busy friday night, rather balmy for the time of year, we are outside, laughing, drinking, unwinding – no, winding up, which is about where I come in, or, to be precise, where my guttersnipe mouth comes in. There is something 'Barassi' about what follows next.
What did I say? Nah, can't quite get it, but whatever it was, it brought her to a crescendo of red-headed temper; there were, were you understand, six empties on our table, and then, there weren't. They went in one foul swoop, or should I say, one clean sweep. All over the road, made a great sound actually, a shattering which momentarily, rendered all the other outdoor patrons, silent in reverence. I saw her tush vanishing fast into the funk, those cute little boot heels stamping bitumen, that mane of shaggy red stuff, swaying to and fro in anger nee frustration. I sat there, noticed that miracle of miracles, thanks to the smiling grace of St Pinot Noir, I still had a glass with at least one decent swig left in it – waste not want not, I say.
I could hear everyone else talking about dyke fights and red-misted redheads and I calmy supped up, then, casual as you like, alighted the hostelry with a dignified panache. Sweet Jesus, I thought to myself, what in the name of clearskins have you gotten yourself into now? That whispy thought pretty soon evaporated however, as I made haste to a re-union (hoped for reunion) two blocks away. I sucked the blood from her finger, why the hell not, we are going pagan anyhow . . . it was a whole new ballgame, and, for once, I was on the receiving end of what I usually dole out as the Primo Drama Queen. It's always odd being on the other side, even odder being verbally accosted by a woman with more spunk than you've got, but hell, what's a girl to do? Thus, I did what any redhead worth her vegetable salt would do; I hit the sack and acquiesced.

Lucky I've Got A Good Sense Of Humus

Quite why I'm outside at six in the morning, a cold morning, holding an empty jam jar into which the redhead is spooning humus, I'm unsure. There is something hedonistic about the whole thing, or, there is something queer about it. I turn to go inside anyway, leaving her to the pre-dawn delights of standing on her head for an hour someplace, as I mull over more sleep and why my nipples resemble the pillars of Hercules, when she yells: hey gorgeous, want some of these chick pea fritters too, they're bloody great?
I go back to the back of the car, and tell her, quietly, that she sounds like one of those Greek caterer's down at the Glendi festival, and to keep her voice down goddamnit. Why? She asks, just as inquisitively as George Donikian himself. Why? I say to her, because it's six in the morning that's why and this whole caper would look pretty fishy to a passing neighbour for sure.
Not fishy, she says to me, vegetabally! And besides, smell these fritters huh?
Yeah, they smell great, like the morning after.
After what?
After they've been deep fried.
Oh dear God, in this still, frigid, morning air, my whole street reeks of humus. I need that damned lid. This is not the kind of street, be it a city one or not, where it's commonplace to see two redheads looking definitely like they've had a night of rumpy, exchanging Greek foodstuffs. And why does she have a bootfull of Greek food anyhow? Does she have a Grecian bit on the side? No, she's not one for hirsuteness, decaying vegetable matter yes, but not decaying humans. She's a dancer after all, spry on her feet, even at this murderously early slit of a day. Frankly, I wouldn't mind the chick pea fritters, I guess, so she bungs me a half-dozen in quick succession which I have to snatch out of the air like a skip-diver's companion. These are strange days, not as strange as ancient Greece perhaps, but as close as it gets. I watch her drive off, the smell of the Mediterranean wafting from her car. It is all to do with Paul Theroux, I'm sure of it. I should never have left that book on her bedside table. Note to self: do not eat cold chick pea fritters and humus for breakfast!

Sports Day With The Saints

There are four patron saints of Britain: St David the Welsh guy, St Patrick the Irish guy, St Andrew the Scot, and good old St George, who wasn't even English but was some sorbet entrepreneur from Naples. They teach you this the first day of school, after you've re-created the battle of Hastings. Trust the goddamned English to have a way dodgy saint. Anyhow, St David wears yellow, like as in the cowardly Welsh, St Andrew of the Jocks wears his navy blue sporren, good old St George wears his red and white long johns and St Patrick wears his emerald green pixie hat. Our school used the four saints as 'houses'. Lots of British schools did, it was simpler and more patriotic than getting alcoholic teachers to think up other house names. Even though St George was an ice-cream maker by trade, because he slayed some dragon, everyone, naturally, wanted to be in St George. No one wanted to be in with St 'there's lovely now' David, St 'och aye the noo' Andrew or St 'to be sure to be sure' Patrick – apart from me. Why? Well, that's a long story, but, even now as I cast my pickled-mind back through the yawning chasm of Greenwich Mean Time, I can still see it all as sparkly clear as a champagne flute at a wake.
St George had won the annual house sports day for the previous one-hundred and twenty-six years, since St George himself breathed garlic on that tadpole actually. St David had never won sports day, and to be honest, attired as they were in canary yellow, that was no great surprise. St David was full of giggling girls and podgy boys all minus athletic prowness, oh, and me. I was choked-up the day they announced I was going to be in St David, mortified. Even more so when my mum forked out good family allowance money on that yellow shirt and socks. I got sort of resigned to the fact anyhow, up until the 29th May 1968. Prior to then, I'd been a claret and blue man. I had a West Ham United shirt and I thought Bobby Moore was the patron saint of English football, which undoubtedly, he was.
But not when I woke up with a Mancunian hangover on the 30th May 1968. Nope, from that day on I was a born again Manchester United fan, I was 'having it' as they say up beyond the great divide, red was my colour and Georgie Best was my man. Georgie was Irish, he played for Northern Ireland, the Irish wore emerald green. From the 30th May 1968 I was adamant I wanted to be in St Patrick's house of shamrock at school. My mum, however, had already bought me the shitty yellow kit, and, at school, they simply weren't interested in my pleas, resolute as they were. I had to stay in St David, with the girls, the dribblers, and the slow learners.
'What's all this temper for?' my mum cajoled me as sports day grew ever closer, 'your great uncle Gareth was Welsh, straight from the valleys of Cllankickinthegooleys'. So what? If I couldn't wear the green, I'd rather not participate . . . like Georgie Best himself in point of fact.
Sports day arrived all warm and spring-like and I was frog-marched to school with my yellow kit scrunched-up in my duffel bag. Mr Williams, the games arranger, well, he wasn't no Jules Rimet that's for sure. 'Stick in there boyo!' he told me, giving me a hearty cuff around my head, 'this is going to be St David's year, I can feel it in me juices laddy!'
St David lost every event up until lunch time; not just lost them, got hammered in them. We had a house full of girls who couldn't even skip rope. What kind of luck is that? I skulked around on the sidelines of play, watching those little St George-ians rise again to the greater glory. Shit like this wouldn't happen if my old man had sent me to a posh school.
After lunch, came the football tournament. Which was where my heart, and, my silky-skills, lay. There was the usual gathering of vocal parents, local minor dignitaries, assorted interested clergy and the regulatory flotsam and jetsam of third parties with little else to do on such a fine afternoon until the pubs and the bingo halls opened. The school sages programmed the semi-finals and final, just like that. No rub downs or ice-baths in-between. I was so desperate to play for St Patrick that I swapped kits with some greaser from St Patrick who couldn't, and didn't want to, play football, or any ball in fact, only moments before the off. It was odd that I'd found such a kid, but nonetheless, It was a sweet deal, done before the transfer window slammed shut. The kid I swapped kit with was two-years higher than me in school, and, about two-and-a-half foot taller as well. That big green shirt of his billowed about my ankles like an evening gown, but, I didn't care. When I took the field, the St David girls all booed and hissed me, and the referee, Mr Jones, got highly uppity about my kit, not to mention my about-turn in respect of allegiances. Some kid yelled out 'Hey, where's your handbag St Patricia!' which was all very humourous indeed.
'Hell boy, ' Mr Jones-of-the-bog said to me as the teams lined-up, 'you'll have to keep that shirt tucked in.' Mr Jones was a taffy and he was long-sighted, and, having a taffy ref for an inter-saint football match which featured his own beloved St David, didn't exactly squeak of impartiality.
I tucked the shirt in best I could, but, before Mr Jones had even blown ceremoniously on his whistle, like he was starting the World cup final at the Aztec stadium, that shirt of mine was rolling out like a welcome mat for the king of the Leprechauns. The game was a dour struggle; full of big meaty punts and bad passes and by halftime we had struggled to a coma-inducing 0-0 score. Don't tell me I'd end up in the first house to lose a game to St David since leeks were discovered?
Matters became more serious when Mr Jones blatantly awarded a penalty to St David for tripping – some yellow fool had fallen over the tail of my green shirt; like a skittish bridesmaid at a wedding. The rest of the St Patrick boys were pretty irate with me; Mr O'Callaghan, the St Patrick coach even stopped sipping from his hip flask to berate me angrily from the sidelines. Those unruly St David girls were still booing and hissing and striking up an out-of-tune chorus of Bread of Heaven. The St David kid, not having been allowed to wear his NHS bifocals, missed the penalty anyhow, missed the whole field actually, and, straight from the re-start we little green men forced a corner up the other end. That ball came skidding into the goalmouth like my uncle John into a public bar just before last orders were called, and, in the ensuing melee, it somehow got caught up in the spare reams of my emerald-green cloth. St Patrick himself must have been shining on me that fateful day, looking down with an impish grin and admiring my own cheek because as all and sundry slithered around playing spot the ball, it suddenly tumbled out of my shirt right onto the goal line as if we'd been involved in some kind of Irish hocus-pocus. All I had to do was stab it home – which wasn't the easiest of feats when you've got two hands holding the end of your frock up like you were about to hit the floor for a resounding jig. What madness it was, how long did it take to get that ball all the way over the line? Was it over the line before St David's inept goalkeeper fell on it and squashed the thing as flat as a Welsh notion for independence? Mr Jones fussed about here and there attempting to bribe spectators around to his 'no goal' viewpoint, but, the deed was done. So much for St David's shot at redemption. There would be no singing in the valleys that night, or any night actually. Yours truly became somewhat of a hero to the men of the green. St Patrick were then to face the might of St George right after oranges were served. But not to me, I still had to listen to Mr O'Callaghan fulminating about my 'dress' and go on and on about the grand old days at Croke Park.
Hero status is nothing but a fleeting fad however, apart from for St George, who squeezed a lifetime's praise out of one minor act. Not ten minutes into the final itself I got whacked in the nose so hard by some bitter English boy, that my eyes swelled-up and looked like those on that dragon after it had just been flayed in the nuts by that ice-cream maker. For the record, St George won 9-0, and that was about the end of my forrays into faux Irish allegiances. Why was St George playing kiss-chasey with a dragon anyhow? And, was the dragon Welsh, and, if it was, why were Wales still allowed to wave a flag with a dragon on it as if it were invincible?
Those were all good questions that were never answered. Another being – why the hell did England have three limp-dick lions fucking about as its emblem? Insofar as I knew, there were never any fucking lions native to England . . .
In my resentment at having been on a side flogged to the very last, I continued, as is my way, to bombard anyone who would listen with my dragon and lion questions. No one was in the least bit interested however. They were all far to engrossed in watching the head boy, with his tight little buns, again collect the annual sports day trophy from the leery-eyed Lord Mayor. I learned that you cannot keep a good saint down. Which was why, before the goalposts had been dismantled and the nets rolled away, I was already inside pestering the eye-patched St George coach Mr Nelson to take me on board for the greater good of England and all who sail in her, to in fact, give me my own golden age. My allegiance since that day has always been stout for the three lions (stupid as they look). Like all English boys of a certain wavering disposition, I took my medicine believing that one day in the not-to-distant future, I too would rise to the heroic levels of our manly patron saint St George, renowned King of the gelato and school sports days.

Lost In Acacia Avenue (And Twice At That)

Natalie Robinson suddenly became extremely popular, which must have felt odd to her. She wasn't by any definition a sensual beauty – but, she came apparently, from a family big on naturism.
Once that news spread around the playground, everyone wanted to go visit Natalie. Well, everyone, like me, who happened to be a boy. She asked me if I'd like to come to the Robinson family sports day the following Sunday, by an odd coincidence, and, given my penchant for competition - I was happy to accept. Acacia Avenue and the Robinson homestead were on my paper round, and with the revelation of rampant nudism in the leafy suburbs all of those funny-looking magazines I had delivered there made sense.
On the Sunday morning I found my cricket bat, the one I'd last used to notch up two hundred and sixty-eight not out in one of the all-time classic backyard knocks. In England we never adopted the six-and-out philosophy. I loved that bat, the way it felt, smelled even, and despite the grip being repaired with tape and the split at the bottom, I still felt reasonably confident about setting a new record at the Robinson's Sunday sports. With the bat wedged across the bike's handlebars I set off to Acacia Avenue, with little thought of nudism on my stupid mind. I mean, any sensible kid cycling to a nudist's house with a cricket bat might have paused to ponder the wisdom of being bowled a googly by a butt-naked middle-aged man. But not me. I hadn't even dwelled on the prospect of a naked Natalie at first slip, or a wobbling Mrs Robinson in all her Sunday glory fielding in deep mid-on. Hell no, all that was lobbing around my head was the thought of yet another glorious century, maybe more. I was never one to walk on dubious appeals or because the fielders were dog-whipped.
Everything looked reasonably ordinary upon my arrival. I mean, no one was down to the bare essentials. Mr Robinson, in his Panama hat and shorts, was carefully mowing the front lawn, an impressive sweep of well-kept grass. A kid like me could do a lot of damage on a lawn like this one. Mr Robinson waved happily to me; the poor fool, within an hour or so that guy would be close to cardiac arrest lumbering to and fro in pursuit of my big hits. I waved back, cheerily.
I had the bat slung over one shoulder as I stood in the cool of the porch – the porch I knew well, you recall, due to my early morning exertions. Mrs Robinson appeared. She was pretty fit for a housewife with more time on her hands than God. She told me to go around the side, through 'gnome-alley' to the back garden where I’d find Natalie and her sister and brother. Uhm, two more fielders more than I'd envisaged, best to stick to the sweep early on in the innings.
Natalie smiled at me as I emerged into the hazy, liquid sunshine of a late spring Sunday afternoon in England. It was one hell of a spread, one of those Country Life gardens; all well-clipped and lovingly raked. But not the ideal ground to play cricket on, not with all those immaculate borders, rose bushes, ornaments, ponds, hedges and god knows what else lurking beyond. As soon as I sat down at the table I could tell that the Robinsons weren't intimately acquainted with visitation protocols. For a start, the boy, who I didn't recognise, was still in his jimmies. The sister, who I guessed was older than Natalie, was shovelling jam into her mouth with her podgy fingers, straight from the jar. The sister was hauling a lot of unnecessary weight and not only that, she dribbled. Maybe Natalie had been the only sibling judged sane enough to attend school?
The boy, whose name turned out to be Crispen, had never seen a cricket bat before. I was both surprised and delighted, this would be like taking rusks from a teething babba. The sister, Ruth, just carried on shovelling in the preserve. Mrs Robinson came out carrying a tray of glasses and a stack of cookies. I smiled politely while she scolded Ruth over the jam-gorging and told Crispen to hurry up and get himself washed and brushed. I had heard about washing, but brushing was a new one, god forbid that Crispen was some kind of wolf-child. Mrs Robinson asked me a few test questions, digging around to see, I suppose, if my true motive for attendance lay in manhandling her only normal offspring. Satisfied with my answers she made haste to the cook pot. I had no idea what to say to Natalie and thankfully she asked if I wanted to see the gardens – she pluralised the offer. Sure. I said, and off we set.
Natalie knew a lot about plants. Too much probably for my liking, but I humoured her, feigning interest in variegated leaves, climbers, ramblers, annuals, perennials and every other kind of green thing backyard horticulturalists swoon over. At the bottom of the garden was the orchard and strange little huts buzzing with activity that Natalie explained were beehives. How very English, I thought, cricket, bees, apples, cut grass, eccentric parents and fruit-loopy kids sheltered from the real world beyond the long and winding gravel driveway. By the time we got back to the small patio, Crispen had washed, and, I suppose, someone had groomed his body fur. Ruth had been taken around to the side hose to have her sticky fingers cleaned. Mr Robinson was now sitting at the garden setting eagerly reading some magazine with butterflies on the cover, oohing and ahhing over the centre-spread. Mrs Robinson arrived wearing one of those English country-wife aprons that English country wives wear in magazines; even though this wasn't technically the country it was far enough out to be considered semi-rural. England is a small place.
Mrs Robinson had nothing on under her apron, other than her skin. Hello, I thought, this isn't so bad after all, and who really cares whether Natalie feels in the mood for nakedness or not? Given that Mummsie obviously does. As Mrs Robinson bent to re-fill my glass with homemade lemonade, one of her mammary glands slipped loose its mooring and stared me straight in the face, nipple first.
Is it time for honey, mother? Mr Lepidopterist enquired breezily. Ruth, the sweet-toothed junkie, slobbered at the mention of fresh nectar, like my granddad's boxer. Dog-boy bared his teeth. Natalie just smiled at me, a tad unevenly I noticed. The nipple was, by now, almost upon my lips, like an invading wart.
Do you like honey? Mummsie asked me.
Yes, I replied, trance-like.
Me too! cried Ruth, as slobber splattered everywhere.
Oh, I see you brought your stick! Mother said, but before I could answer, she had added – And oh my, isn't it far too warm to be bothered with an itchy apron? And off it came, her thin modesty. She carried on as if nothing untoward had occurred, telling me that my stick was the queerest looking croquet mallet she'd ever seen.
A few moments later Mr Robinson appeared attired in sandals, big red gloves, and a hat with netting on it that dropped below his chin. Apart from that he was swinging low. Off he marched in the direction of the bees. It seemed strange to me that a man would go to the bother of hand and face protection when his goods were free and easy . . . but I had no time to dwell on the horror. Mrs Robinson was back with rock cakes; I felt something odd in my gut, and something odder in my loins – perhaps I had brought a croquet stick after all. We four kids ate in silence, waiting for screams of agony from somewhere near the beehives. Mrs Robinson fussed about us as I tried to keep focused on Natalie, not her over-proud mother. Though, by god, it was a fraught task.
The only people who wanted to partake of naked croquet were Mr and Mrs Robinson. They set about banging little hoops into the ground here and there, then giddily got out the mallets and ball and began playing with each other. I had decided to slip away between rubbers, or chukkas, or humps, or whatever it is croquet players play . . . Natalie walked me around to the front garden, in silence.
Do your folks get up to this kind of thing all the time? I asked her, as I mounted my bike. Which, given the circumstances, was the only thing I was ikely to mount today.
Uh huh, she replied, glumly.
Do you? I asked, slipping my bat between the handlebars.
With my mother always in attendance? she answered. I saw her point.
I liked our back garden. It was rustic in places, well-worn in others. My dad mowed the lawn with his clothes on and my mother never served homemade lemonade, either dressed or naked. We didn't have beehives, gnomes, ornamental water pumps, cart-wheels, or a croquet set. I live a normal life, I realised. I don't need to know, right now, what birds, bees or the Robinsons on Acacia Avenue do for kicks; all I need to know right now is who is playing wicketkeeper.
It was several months later, some ways into the frosty throes of an ever-lingering English winter, when I again found myself on Acacia Avenue through no other reason but boredom. Summer, with its cricket, insect life and naturists had vamoosed, and, all we had left were bare trees and frozen sods. I'd thought about Natalie a lot, over the preceding months, of how awful it must be being burdened with parental units mad to shed their kit at the drop of a serviette. Perhaps in my own practical way, I could bring Natalie back into the pulsating world of normal childhood and, into the bargain, be rewarded for my efforts with something more substantial than a peck on the cheek. I rode up the crunchy driveway on my trusty bike, dismounted and rang the doorbell, the one that played Greensleeves. How odd I hadn't noticed it before?
Mrs Robinson answered, attired in her flimsy Sunday finery. Oh my! She exclaimed excitedly, as she all but yanked me into the warm confines of her glorious mansion. I began to sweat immediately, given that I was, after all, dressed for the season at hand. The family immediately gathered around me, like ghouls. Things had obviously slid a tad further since the last days of summer and the last pot of honey. Under any circumstance my tolerance for groping hosts is mild at best – but, I had after all, come of my own accord and thus, within a matter of minutes several sets of nimble fingers had successfully removed my coat, mittens, hat, scarf and extra pullover. It was when one of those sets of fingers reached for the belt buckle that I immediately drew a line in the sand, or, on the shag if you will. In all of the ceremonial welcoming rituals and de-clothing customs I had all but overlooked the fact that Mr Robinson was wearing slippers. And, nothing else. The wolf-child Crispen wasn't so far behind in coming forward either, though at least he had had the common decency to keep his Wombles underpants on. As my eyes adjusted to the strange, fallow light, that barely-radiated at all within the Robinson house of wax, I began to realize that even Ruth, and, dear god, Natalie herself, were in the various-states-of-undress situation themselves. I had mistakenly presumed that with the onset of an English winter, the Robinsons might refrain from nudity for the sake of frostbite at least. But no, the whole lot of them were still going at it hard behind the tightly-drawn velvet curtains. Harder in fact.
That was about when I saw the Twister mat layed out on the Axminster. Oh dear Lord, what on earth had I stumbled into this time? Do you know Twister? Mrs R asked gaily.
I had no heart to tell her I had three American cousins who always brought me great American inventions like the Frisbee, the Hoola Hoop and the Pitch and Mitt. That indeed, along with Parcheesi, I was somewhat renowned for my Twister cunning and elasticity. No. I told her.
Obviously they'd bent the rules of what was, by design, a wholesome family game, into something far more underhand and slippery. Oh come on! It's such great fun, isn't it mumsie! Natalia chivvied me. I was sure it was, strip-Twister, in a certain time, place, and with the whole healthy Garden-of-Eden thing forefront in the two player's minds. But not, when it was being played out by an extended family of clothes-discarders. I bade my leave, as was, and still is in fact, my way.
Naturally, or, should I say nature-ally, they were sorry to see me go so soon. That was the second time I rode home from the shennanigans of Acacia Avenue stumped for thoughts, let alone words. In my house we never played Twister, and that, was a definite bonus. Twister, unlike backyard cricket I might add, involves close physical contact with your nearest and dearest and that kind of gig was never something we English had taken to. But, like I've said, I had played Twister on the odd occasion – in the backyard tepee of my aunt June's with her three, supple daughters and their varying stages of development. To play games of any nature, whether sensibly attired or down to the gizzards as it were, there has to be some kind of positive spin-off.
I asked Mr Lampfrey, the newsagent of long-standing, to take me off the Acacia Avenue paper-delivery route, even though they tipped generously up around those parts at yuletide. He must have known something too; as he merely sighed and re-assigned me to another patch.

The Liquid Life Of Artists

Art, she said, is above & beyond all else.
I considered the statement while she flung dirty underwear into a suitcase. Maybe she was right, anyhow.
When she took to hard drugs, lavish promiscuity & Miller's lost weekends with libertines, she put it down to art.
I kept that thought in a bell jar. Along with all the other scrappits of random nonsense I had collected like used postage stamps.
Then she left no forwarding address. Sent me a postcard sometime later with Lautrec in Toulouse on it. I remembered that his name was Henri too.
She went way way down, subterranean, & far far out: Enterprising. Wrote later that she had hit a Homer, escaped the Iliad; she reminded me of Joyce, only with bigger tits and a better ass.
In the end, I stayed resilient. Made art. Thought that maybe one day I would Mailer a postcard back, poste resante. It would be a portrait of the artist as a dumb fool – swimming buck naked in Pollock's aquarium.
Nevermind.

GRIDIRON LIKE LOVE

the whole nine yards is one completely different ballgame
now i find myself inexplicably the quarterback on team love
staring at a hundred yards of field with a fistful of spleen
captaining the shittiest offense in the league
staring down the hardest defense & even though we're all padded & helmeted & protected,
i know it's still gonna fucking hurt when i get smashed each play
& for each yard i move my team i'll earn a merit bruise
so i call it & we huddle for 1st & 10 & i'm contemplating using my
wide receivers or just going straight up the center as the umpire blows,
& i cry yellow 41! yellow 41! yellow 41!
UP! UP! UP! & i take the snatch clean & then i see your defense coming . . .
a wall of truth
onrushing
& i know i've gotta palm off this atom ball or take the sack
so instead i fall to one knee looking for sanctuary & now
we're fucking 2nd & 14 & at this rate i'm gonna have to
punt or take the risk play option
& everyone sucks in big ones while i deliberate
mentally & all i've got left are 3 plays & the truth.
green 28! green 28! green 28!
up! up! up!

Love Me, Love My Ex's Cats.

7 a.m. on a lazy sunday morning after a pretty 'hard at it' Saturday night and we're going at the job of girl-on-girl pretty damned well. We are in the zone. Getting wet. When, the phones rings and as you'd expect, we leave it. Concentration broken, the moment all but over, we try to recapture what we had only minutes before then the phone rings again, then again . . . when a phone goes that many times at that ungodly hour of that godly day, you'd best know where your black dress is.
But no, nothing so sombre as that, what this is all about, this very early Sunday morning ding-a-ling, is a cat. I lay there wondering how it would have panned out, the sex, not the cat shit, while I listen to a one-sided panic-laden conversation taking place between exes who still share feline feelings for animals . . . an interloper from another planet might well misconstrue this kind of animated detailia of animalia as a human person receiving news of a death . . . and it is, in a strange way.
It is the death of innocence for the intentional wayfarer slash tourist laying naked waiting for the conversation to end and the sex to reconvene but then realizing that the sex isn't going to get jump started anyhow because a cat on a hot tin roof in some suburban backyard is obviously going to rule this furball of a theological morning. They are discussing rock throwing, absailing, mace, hose pipes, water shortages, the fire brigade, litter trays, pet food, in the way that night-weary gamblers discuss the pros and cons of a roll of the die. At least one of them, my one, is handling her end with some kind of level-headed decency, as all I can hear from the other end is shrieking and I believe for a second or two that the cat pinned down on the ex's neighbour's roof by a posse of bigger uglier neighbourhood hellcats is actually on the phone itself.
I'm thinking I'm laying in a lesbian cliché. How can this be? Why I am here? This is not my beautiful house, that is not my beautiful wife, yet, and, that cat is certainly no concern of mine. I mean, let's face it, if the dog was up on the roof then fair enough, but what's the big head-shrinking deal about a cat being up on a roof? Insofar as I know, cat's have been up on roofs since roofs were first invented. In the Serengeti it's quite common to wake up and find a lion sunbathing on your, or, your neighbour's roof. Get over it. But obviously not in suburbia. They are still trying to talk it through anyhow, in that irrational, completely paranoid, way dykes discuss animals in. I pull on my knickers, go get a cup of coffee, sit outside and watch some other cat stalking a colourful looking bird. Nature in all of its beauty three-floors below me. If I had a BB gun I could pop a cap in that pussy's ass from up here no problems . . . oh, my part of the dynamic duo of Batwoman and Catwoman is back looking exhausted. Runs a hand through her bedraggled hair, tries to make not-so-light of the whole insanity now – I finish my coffee, tip the slops over the balcony and it just misses that stalking cat which then shoots up a tree. You see, a cat in a tree, no big deal. I go back to the bedroom and make bedroom eyes but the cat people and their furry business have already stolen my lover's mind away for today . . . what next I wonder, Andrew Lloyd Webber calling reverse charges to discuss a lesbian version of Cats? Dr. Do-little is my name on this holy day.

Sid Vicious' Spit

Sid Vicious' Spit
S.P.O.T.S tour . . . someday in seventy something . . .
i'm with scouse. He's pierced his own lip with a safety pin & now itz fucking green
lost our jobs 3 days ago, been travelling following the unofficial/unreleased/unpublicised 'schedule'
& they never fucking play ANYWHERE due to SOCIETAL CONTROL & i'm pissed off/tired/spotty/dirty & scouse has caught lice some fucking where . . .
& we get to the peak district, in winter. Me: dirty ramones T, arseless jeans, plastic beach sandals.
SCOUSE: a filthy raincoat, pvc pants, old docker's boots minus laces. We beg a while. Get moved on
by the LAW. Try to rent a fucking tv in a town we dont even live in – get on the spotted for public indecency-
no underwear is a fucking crime up here. Itz minus 5.
meet some other kids. They have gin. The gig is gonna happen – OK.
Pistols play for all of 22 minutes before the plug is pulled midway through BELSEN.
A minute for each audience member – nice. It is no fucking FUN.
The last time I ate was a sausage roll a day ago. If i could throw up, I'd probably eat my own vomit – waste not, want not. I am so FUCKING COLD. We wait around outside. True disciples. Total fucking angelic faced wasters with no future AT ALL. Johnny doesnt even speak. Johnny is a big fucking STAR now. The cunt. Steve only speaks to himself. Paul cant even fucking speak. SID comes crashing out. Leather jacker over bare chest breathing Breaker fumes. Like, who gets fucking pissed on Breakers? But he's tall. Way taller than I thought & prettier than I thought. Scouse pushes me forward. Sid almost walks straight through me – he smells fucking bad. Like decomposition. I say: Say Sid, can i get your autograph? I say this because I'm a bona fide cocksucker who is malnourished & blue with cold.
He says: Sure fuckface.
I say: Oh, hang on, no fucking pen but . . .
He says: OK try this.
And he spits in my face.
Scouse says: fuck, that's great.
A girl. (I think itz a girl) tries to lick it. I push her away, sloppy seconds bitch.
They are gone, into the night. All i have is Sid's saliva freezing on my face. I am a long way from home. Infected. Hauling around the DNA of Sid Vicious. If Scouse tries to lick me one more time; i swear to god i'll carve him up with this Stanley knife.
In the motorway services cafe, we eat 32 sugar cubes between us.
Scouse steals 3 mars bars & a biro from the stationary shop. Better fucking late than never.
Tomorrow we are going to see the Clash. Joe Strummer is OK, but the rest are fucking tosspots.
America didnt deserve Sid Vicious. But he deserved America.
In England's dreaming, I never rise to the surface. I am a bloated dead white groper fish.
I get home 8 days later. My old man tries to take a strap to me. I pick up an iron bar.
This is the end beautiful friend. Of everything.
I get disappointed at the Stranglers gig. Fucking frauds. Course there's no fucking Rainbow at the Rainbow we aint dumbfucks Hugh . . .
But Peaches was OK. & the Frenchy is kinda cute. Got that Delon thing going on . . .
I leave when Ten Pole Tudor comes on. Biggest wank job around . . .
Sid is dead, they tell me. I say: itz for the best – Cooper-Clarke agrees. Johnny dont care. Ronnie is still in Rio . . . I am pretty vacant. 4 SURE!!! $$$$$$$
WASTED
WASTED
WASTED
WASTED
WASTED
Ever had the feeling you've been had?
Hah ha ha!

Just Call Me Kathy Kane!

JUST CALL ME KATHY KANE!
Riddle me this my gay nocturnal mammals; what is five-eight in heels, has flaming red hair, a penchant for broads, and a kick like a just-propositioned drag queen? Me you say? Ho ho, not quite my sexuality bending friends, the answer, of course, is Kathy Kane. Renowned socialite, heiress and longtime dust-sheeted heroine Batwoman. Do you know, I waited 40-years for DC to admit Batwoman was, in fact, a red-headed lesbian, which is almost as long as I waited to come out! But, holy hips batfolks, the simularities don't stop there.
Although I am not a wealthy socialite with a sugar family and a trust fund, I do live in Gotham City and, have been known on the odd occasion, to fight crime – and, now and again, to dress as a vampy batchick and leap from tall buildings down on King William. Those raunchy rampages were soon dampened however by over-zealous OHS regulations, and thus, my batty, bodiced-battles were sadly curtailed. Life as a girl crime fighter, especially one squeezed into a skin-tight body suit complete with obligatory breast and hip padding, isn't all it's cracked up to be . . .
All of which, goes no way at all to explaining why Kathy Kane a.k.a Batwoman, has been kept shrink-wrapped for three decades or so while that steroid-riddled batboy and his bisexual partner-in-crime-fighting camped it up all over Gotham armwrestling adversaries like Mr. Frosticle and the Piddler. I mean, how long does a girl have to wait to see the steel-cage match-up of Catwoman versus Batwoman? That is every pre-pubescent boys and lesbian's (pre or post-pubescent) fantasy. So okay, I'll admit that during Batwoman's enforced hiatus I went all catty, honestly, how could you not? There is a hell of a lot to be said for a woman poured into a shimmering cat suit, ask Bruce Wayne, and, while the transition from comic caricature to big screen 3D in the hedonistic guise of Mz Michelle was pretty much enough to make me swap sides and take up crime again, I still knew that locked in the vault someplace, our poor Batwoman was hanging around upside down (good for the hair follicles I'm told), awaiting her turn in the big bat spotlight.
Times they have a changed for Kathy K, and, changed for the better I might add. Catwoman, well, she is definitely a brunette, I mean, brunettes are a dime a dozen on Gotham's party strip, ditto blondes, and, no one really associates with a blonde crime fighter, do they? And, considering your femme fatales are almost always raven-haired, there was only one feasible makeover for Batwoman to have. Personally, I think it endorses red-heads everywhere, and, I have no doubt that many of Hollywood's A-list, and, even some of its B-list actor chicks, will be heading down to see Mr. Ronaldo for a red-rinse pretty damned soon. And why not? Who wouldn't want to play a red-headed lesbian always up for a spot of girl-on-girl between crime fighting gigs? I predict that even before the movie comes out, whoever gets named as Kathy Kane, will become an overnight dykon for every queer magazine in the world. Which is all as it should be as personally I've had a gutfull of Jodie Foster and Ellen De Generate . . . and now I have to fly batlings, the Commissioner is on the batphone . . . something about the Lord Mayor having been kidnapped by a bunch of tricycle-riding leathermen, dear god, will it never end?

Anatomy Girl & Her Love Of Bits

1. Cindy's Got Mumps
Sally, the girl I'm now sitting next to in school, closer to the blackboard, is still on at me to come see her Cindy doll's hair. I told her I would, because I know her name now. I don't know where Sally lives. So Sally says she'll show me after school.
I go to Sally's house and we go up to her bedroom and find her Cindy doll. Sally is right, Cindy does have very long hair. I'm looking at Cindy and I see that Cindy has lumps up top. Sally giggles and goes a bit red. I ask Sally whether Cindy has the mumps, if so, I need to get them because my mum says I'll need to get mumps before a certain age. I'm unqualified to guess what the certain age is, although my mum seems very concerned that I get the mumps before the age I don't know.
Sally considers my query. She wears glasses, and, kids who wear glasses sometimes take longer to answer, I don't know why. Sally asks me if I love her. 'Cindy?' I reply.
'Not Cindy silly, me!'
Girls tend to ask you far harder questions than boys. All Raymond Hackett ever asks me is if I've got sweets. I tell Sally that if she can find the mumps, the ones like her Cindy doll has, I'll love her. Sally is very happy about this unexpected turn of events, and she goes on to ask me whether we'll get married after we've fallen in love with our mutual mumps. Things are getting quite complicated, but, seeing as how I'm five years old, going on six, I guess I'll have to make some kind of commitment sooner or later. Like my mum keeps telling me, the mumps will be a good thing to get, at my age in life . . .
2. Penny Always Has Her Top Down
I don't know why I have so many aunts but so few uncles. Aunt Penny comes down to see my mum now and again, usually on a Sunday. She drives a sports car with the top down, she wears a headscarf and big sunglasses and she smells like summer.
Penny always brings me something, usually small toy cars that look just like the one she drives. Penny is the only girl I know who can drive. Most girls have men called Parker who drive them around, but not my aunt Penny. When my aunt Penny gets out of her sports car, her dress slides right up her leg. Her leg is very brown. Penny is not a foreigner.
Penny must have got the mumps very early in life and never got rid of them. She has very big mumps, mumps that wobble. I wonder whether my mumps will get that big and wobble, and, if so, will I get brown legs too? Sometimes Penny will take me for a drive in her sports car, the one with the top that is always down. Penny drives very fast, and, as she drives, her mumps bounce up and down. When I get bigger I'd like a sports car with no top, and big mumps that bounce up and down when you drive really fast. Penny's hair is much longer than the hair on Sally's Cindy doll. Penny's hair is so long, she can tie it up in knots. My dad says to my mum, that it's not right that a boy like me should be driving around real fast with a woman like Penny. No good will come of it, my dad says. Every time Penny comes down and takes me for a fast drive, all I can think about are mumps and how you get them?
GI Joe doesn't have mumps, and, by the looks of him undressed, he never got them. I hope I don't grow up to look like GI Joe.
3. Valerie's Brood
By the age of thirteen, you pretty much realize that the mumps have missed you. You are not wearing training bras and skipping around gaily with your hair in a pony tail playing hockey. You are bondaged into a jock strap and other boys are squeezing your goods deep in the scrum while Mr Ely watches very closely, just to ensure your goods are being squeezed tightly enough.
You are going to grow up and look like GI Joe, or at the least, to closely resemble his anatomically partless plastic figure. If you are lucky, there will be another war and maybe one day your stupid face will end up on a bubble gum card. You storming a Rusky trench, teeth clenched, eyes wide, bayonet out front and centre like an erect man thing, or some equally macho depiction of heroics. There will be no hips for you to swing boy, or long hair to tie, all of the bits Cindy, Sally, Penny and all of the other mump girls got, won't be arriving in the second post, forget it. You are not a late developer, late developing doesn't run in your family. But it does in Valerie's harem of trail and error. Valerie isn't your aunt, there are no blood ties, Valerie is just one of your mum's old girlfriends, one who got the mumps big time. Valerie is very well stacked, she has big jugs, as the boys like to say in the locker room. This is why you're hanging around at Valerie's house, because Valerie has three daughters and all of those daughters are very well endowed, like mother like daughter.
Maybe you are still hoping that by some strange miracle of miracles, there'll be some mump residue to spare if you knock about with Val's girls.
That, and the fact that Valerie is so used to living the all-gal life, not having had a man since man can remember, that she still walks around barely dressed and you can see her bits now and again. Those bits you'd like to get your hands on, to try them on for size. Val's brood like to go over to the playground and swing high on the swings. They all wear cute summer dresses and as they get that swinging rhythm going, their summer frocks billow out in the warm breeze. There are definitely bits up there that you need.
Val is very liberal, or so my mum's friend Janet says. Janet isn't liberal, which explains why I'm not at her house helping her boy Simon feed his rabbit. Rabbits have no bits I need. Because Val is liberal, her girls are liberal to. We, me and the three of them, squeeze into this Indian tepee that they've got out back and play strip poker. Those girls are obviously old school card sharks because I'm all but undressed, either that, or I've less to remove? Val has less to remove to, and, if she was playing I'd most likely up the ante, cheat myself. Anyhow, if I wait long enough Val will hit the sauce big time and I'll get to peek at her mumps. I rather like it at Val's house and I wonder what the chances are of her adopting me?
4. Lucy's Lips
I have no idea where Lucy White found those lips of hers. Those lips are like two big plump pink slugs. My limps aren't like that all, my lips are thin, hollow, when I put my mum's lipstick on them, it fattens them a bit, but to nowhere near as fat as Lucy White's.
Some boys want to kiss Lucy's lips, but not me. I'd only kiss Lucy's lips if her lips where mine and I could kiss them myself. There is no disease you can catch, not even cooties, that will plump up your lips. If you get punched in your lips they tend to swell – and go purple too. This is some unfathomable dilemma I face. No mumps, no long brown legs, no lips; chicken pox gave me precisely nothing in the way of new bits. Lucy White can wear a cross your heart bra, and lipstick. There is no point in me trying to catch something off of Lucy White, she is as healthy as the day is long. Lucy White has found god, and no wonder, with lips like those.
5. Hilary Is Very Hippy
It was certainly not an intentional bump. The hallways at school are very crowded at times and during those crowded times, bumping is all but unavoidable. Hilary Duff is always spoiling for a fight, and, seeing as how she's fought most of the girls and won, now she's starting on the boys. Hilary Duff believes in equality. Anyhow, no way could I avoid those hips of hers, to avoid those hips would have entailed bumping chests with Paul Newman and, that as they say, is like being between a rock and a very hard place.
Hilary Duff has sumptious hips, I think she swung them in my direction deliberately, seeing as how I wear glasses. I'm not supposed to fight girls, actually, I'm not supposed to fight at all, full stop. My glasses are already taped together across the bridge of my nose, the result of a fight I lost last week. So far I am zip 'n' three insofar as fights go, I've been unlucky. But now, well, if Hilary Duff calls me out, I will be staring straight down the barrel of total humiliation. So of course, she does . . . if goddamned Hilary Duff didn't own hips that were so wide, child bearing as I heard one teacher saying, I wouldn't be in this mess. I think it's totally unfair that I'm at a distinct disadvantage, given that I wear glasses and don't have hips . . . hips are dangerous things.
6. No Butts About It
Jesus, here I am sitting outside of the headmaster's office again. What for this time? Arson, that's what for. Apparently, I set fire to one of the sixth formers real-life drawings in the corridor that is close to the girls domestic sciences classroom. If it had just been one drawing that went WHOOSH! I suppose things would go easier on me; as it is, half the corridor went WHOOSH! And the fire brigade had to be called.
Carol King is here too, sitting right alongside me. She is not up on any charges as serious as arson, though if you ask me, smoking is just as serious. Carol King expects to get a slap across the palm of her hand with the cane. She tells me it won't hurt her a bit, nor compel her to desist from smoking. I shrug, me, me I'm gonna get a half dozen across my butt, that is for sure. I tell Carol King that my punishment will hurt like hell, and, I ask her, how come is it boys get ass-thrashed and girls get a soft love-tap on the palm of the hand? Carol King tells me that you can't touch, smack, hit or even look at a girl's bottom without causing harm to the fertility cycle. Well, there you have it, straight from the filly's mouth. Carol King goes into the office, the whup she gets is so soft you can't even hear it. She comes out smiling, and goes off up the hallway wiggling her ass to buy some more smokes.
I go in, I get bent over the headmaster's desk and given six of his very best. The headmaster can hit me as hard as he likes because I don't have an ass to write home about and because I don't have a fertility cycle to interfere with.
No butts about it, without the kind of bits I'm suppose to have, my life is going to be hell.
7. The Thigh Is Certainly The Limit
I don't really care much at all for Amanda Shepherd. She wants me to escort her to the park on Saturday afternoon, and, it all sounds far too formal for my liking. Amanda Shepherd has large, watery brown eyes. Like those eyes Marina the Aqua-girl in Stingray has. I've never liked girls draped in seaweed with big watery eyes and webbed feet, whereas girls in tight kit with catty masks and whips definitely were my bag – which is about where Brenda Small comes in. Brenda Small is Amanda's cattish 'best friend' and, because they're girls, they go everywhere, and do everything, together. Ergo, it follows, as Pythagoras theorized, that where Amanda goes, i.e. to the park with yours truly, Brenda Small will follow? I pay attention in maths.
Brenda Small has way meaty thighs. Thighs like lamp posts. No skirt can contain thighs like those; thighs like those can do pretty much as they please. I follow Brenda Small around like a poodle, panting and gasping, for a girl with mountaineer's thighs, that girl can really move. When we all sit down to chew grass and make daisy chain necklaces, I can see that no natural light penetrates between Brenda Small's thighs at a certain point – probably where the square of the length of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the lengths of the other two sides. Above that conjunction of curves and transmigration of souls, it is just darkness, the eternal mystery of girl-life. When we all walk home in the still afternoon, I can hear Brenda Small's thighs rubbing against each other, like grinding stones in a mill – I understand the theory of relativity; which is, that relatively speaking, I am on the outer.
8. Working Class Man
When I reach the age of forty, I am nothing but a derailed goods train, abandoned stock, stood rusting in a disused siding. Male pattern balding has ravaged me, I have a rather fine beer belly and, I look – well, I look nothing at all like I once thought I would, when I grew up and received my missing bits via Fedex.
The bits I currently own, are worth next to nothing in the flesh bazaar. Underneath however, there is still a functioning exoskeleton.
A loose assembly of bones with an incorrect distribution of flesh covering them. There is still time, it is never too late, there are many fine medicos and surgeons these days, most, if not all, keenly interested in re-modelling anatomies. That little girl who was once inside of me, is still hanging about someplace; down one of the litter-strewn back alleys of my mind, leaning against a malfunctioning streetlight like a washed-up hooker. Oh man, if only I could take that trip, a trip like that'd really blow your mind honey . . . don't be afraid, they say – just call me.
9. The Struggle For Existence
That is the very same topic the good doctor discussed with me, in respect of the sperm I was about to voluntarily sacrifice for the cause of female uniformity. He thought that maybe, given the struggle for existence, I should freeze a few million just in case.
'Just in case of what?' I asked him point blank.
'Well, just in case you uhm, change your mind one day or meet a good woman and you want to . . . '
'Want to what?'
'You know, procreate artificially.'
'You mean, if I change my mind and decide to go hang with the boys again?'
'Exactly.'
'Forget it doc, give it your best shot, let's go, hey ho.'
10. The Bit Collector
Years roll on like a bridal train from that fetid womb whence I was dragged. Mostly I'd say, I've been screwed good and proper – and, in that way, I'm as genetic girl as they come. So, when you see me, the original and very bestest Anatomy Girl, sashaying along the avenue, all swish 'n' swirl, bits hanging in the breeze; keep your scorn under lock and key.
I've worked hard for these bits honey, and, in the wash-up, when the big court sits upstairs, it'll be a unanimous decision; that I fell in love with a girl and that girl just happened to be me! No one can ever accuse you of having an affair with yourself, can they?
All those essential beauty bits I craved, I've collected, bit by bit. I always loved them, not in any cardinal transgression way – no sister, I just loved those bits so much, I pined every dark night for them. In the dark, only your ghosts can hear you shriek.
Love, honey, is a fine and dandy thing; though, dangerous too. Love is all about cheating, cheating the odds: nature, anatomy, sterotyping, yourself, society, those closest to you who never ever realize just who you really are. To really really love, girl – you gotta learn to cheat the odds! When I think of love, I think of bits – yeah – I think of bouncing swinging curvaceous bits . . . when I think of love, I think of anguish.

Born To March

Born To March
Every which way I turn these days, someone is either about to march, or, has just marched. Marching seems to be the 'in' thing, although, thinking about it, I'm sure it never actually went 'out'.
In post-war England, we were pretty much expected to stomp straight out of the womb ready to march. I never knew what for. Still, I was a dandy little marcher in my day, goosestepping my way around our semi-detached council house wearing a tin hat and banging a toy drum. Later, as a somewhat disturbed adolescent, I remember marching alongside the annual Lions parade rattling a bucket for loose change – a bucket that once full of said loose change, I absconded with. And again, as an even more disturbed young adult with the right to vote, and drink, I can remember marching with the big red-faced men all wearing steel-toed boots on a Sunday morning. I think they were marching for England. Still, I only liked the sound all those boots made on otherwise quiet pavements.
In juvey, where I was attending her Majesty's pleasure, I remember being called an 'exemplary marcher', and, that is high praise indeed in England. But, my marching days evaporated, as marching days do, and, it was only many years later when I stumbled bedraggled and badly made up into the queer scene, where my interest in marching somewhat reignited. Marching is about as big in the queer scene, as it in China. And thus, we come full circle right back to all those people talking to me about marching in the present tense.
I understand the allure of it. The comradeship. The opportunity to be overt and en masse. The call of the sequin, the latex, the feather boa. Recently, seeing some footage of the 'Mardi Gras', I wondered why they still refer to it as Sydney's 'Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras', why not, just the 'Mardi Gras'. Insofar as I'm aware, many people who aren't gay, lesbian, or, even interested in being gay or lesbian, have, year-by-year, continued to swell the numbers of what has become, more of a general carnival than a strictly queer one. Let's face it, the hets have a lot of parades, but, they don't feel the need to have something like a 'Heterosexual Mardi Gras' where soccer mums push those aerodynamic three-baby-buggies and men wearing blue singlets with chesty Bonds pride push Victa lawnmowers, do they? Indeed. No one is proud to be Het. They just are. We are just queer, but, seemingly, we have to be proud to be so. My 21st Century question, is why? Why can't we just be. Just do it.

The Manopause & The Transgendered Song Of The Damned

The Manopause & The Transgendered Song Of The Damned
It's not for me to say whether there is such a thing as the mAnopause or not. But, given that I have had some dealings with the craziness of hormonal fluctuations, I wouldn't doubt that it did exist. Take my old man for instance, if he isn't a case in point of a guy reaching a certain age and going doo-lally, well . . .
What has piqued my interest in this whole area of rampantly surging, and, totally uncontrollable hormones, is news straight off the mojo wires from my auld country of birth refarding a dosed-up transgendered woman running amok in a supermarket and then blaming it all of the menopause. Is it possible? Well, several emminent psychobabblers back there in Camelot claim so. Interesting, I thought, I mean, were the 'menopausal' symptons the poor, besotted and deranged, tranny experienced while lunging at frigid supermarket stackers and tweed-attired ladies straight from Marks & Sparks, a female menopause or some hybrid manopause sparked by heavily-concentrated doses of mare urine? Where is the line? Ye gods, is there even a line? I hear, from very unreliable sources using the last remaining BT phonebox on the Whitechapel Road, that in the public bar that night the argument was both heated, and, uh, testy. I can just imagine it.
But, look at it in the vice versa: I mean, say if my aunt Joan suddenly decided she was going to be become uncle Jack, which is all well and good and no one's business but her (his) own I might add, and then uncle Jack ran amok in Sainsbury's, would that be a menopausal woman, a mAnopausal man, or, some transcendentapausal crossbred? Jesus, hormones are dangerous things, and, being liberally used, as they are, by a medical profession barely aware of the full detrimental effects of the damned things, sometimes makes me wake up shivering with sweat. Oh, that's the hormones doing that of course, not my own fear. In fact, I have no fear, not since I heard the Icelandic ditty entitled 'The Transgendered Song Of The Damned', a rollicking sea-shanty-esque ode that was once used by grizzled harpooners up on the decks greasing their instruments of destruction for the hunt ahead.
What are Icelandic harpooners doing singing about the transgendered anyhow? The world is a strange and bizarre place, especially in Reykjavik I'm told. Where gender-bending, enemas and oilskins are big business. Everywhere I look thesedays, there is madness . . .