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!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
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?
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.
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.
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 . . .
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 . . .
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