Film of the Week #1 - 'Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans'

"What are these fuckin' iguanas doing on my coffee table?"

The roles Nicolas Cage takes often require a certain unhinged quality that is no doubt influenced by his own eccentricity. Thanks to memes and YouTube compilations, Cage's most batshit moments have won him a cult following; equal parts admiration and mockery. Each film he's involved in, whilst frequently being awful direct-to-DVD bullshit inexplicably cooked up within the studio system and serving to pay off his enormous debts, will provide some classic Cage, whatever the overall artistic quality. Nevertheless, the actor's fans (of whom I am certainly one) believe that he works best when paired with a director in possession of a singular vision.

There are directors with a singular vision. And then there's Werner Herzog.

Herzog uses William Finkelstein's script as a sort of loose framework for his trippy vision of a man's descent into drug-fuelled madness in a decrepit, post-Katrina New Orleans. The city plays the role of the other main character; its ruined beauty ever-emphasised by Peter Zeitlinger's unsettling cinematography. Cage's Terrence McDonagh is a tyrant, but New Orleans never concedes him the control he'd like to exert.

Finkelstein's dialogue might seem kind of wooden on paper. I can't imagine "mind if I light one up?" bears the same neurotic comedic weight as when delivered by Cage, and I'm unsure as to whether the classic "oh yeah" guy could conceivably have been scripted outside of the surreal environment of Herzog's New Orleans. The director's authorial mark is unmistakable, particularly the tour-de-force of filmmaking that is the (I believe unscripted) scene in which Cage, tripping absolute balls, walks in on a surveillance operation and notices aforementioned "fuckin' iguanas," before the plot is sidelined as a soulful slow-jam kicks in and Herzog cuts to the iguanas' point of view, flittering between the two animals' lines of sight with heavily impressionistic camerawork, Cage staring on in the background in suspicious wonderment.

It's a nasty film. Cage's character does all sorts of horrible shit, and mostly gets away with it; pulling out an ailing old lady's breathing tube ("Maybe you should just drop dead, you selfish cunt. Sucking up your family's inheritance through that fucked oxygen tube!) , having sex with a young woman in front of her boyfriend in return for lack of conviction for the crack cocaine he just stole from them ("Where the rock at? C'mon, who's got the kibble?!"), abusing his power by doing nothing at all as Xzibit's crew ("G! Hahahahaha!") dump a suspiciously corpse-shaped package in the river. He's crippled for life from one time he reluctantly did a good deed, and fuck is he compensating for it. Now he has an economical attitude to the law, evidenced by the fact his girlfriend is a prostitute, with whom he bonds over Class A drugs. She's played by a perfectly vulnerable and, yes, sexy Eva Mendes. But when it seems like it can only go downhill for Lt. McDonagh, every single subplot is resolved in a hilariously lazy fashion.

That's not a spoiler. Bad Lieutenant's not about plot. There is one, primarily concerning a murder investigation, but it's incidental. While life changes around Cage's character, he stays the same; a drug-addicted asshole mess. Herzog says the film is about "the bliss of evil," and people brush the cop's evil under the carpet, or enable him, or don't notice. There are extraordinarily tender moments of sadness, hope and pathos with his wreck of  family, jarringly juxtaposed with his frenzied, gut-bustingly funny madness as Cage's remarkably accurate imitation of drug abuse evolves to reflect the uncut crack that comes into his possession somewhere along the line of the non-plot.

Some could interpret this film as a gritty crime thriller, but by the time Cage is staring ecstatically at a dead man's soul breakdancing to a jaunty harmonica tune, it becomes pretty obvious that it's simply one of the most absurd comedies ever made, in the greatest possible way. I urge this blog's reader to get their hands on this film immediately. Once attainment is accomplished, get the kibble, sit down with your lucky crackpipe, and light one up!

Notes from my memoirs.

#1
Leaving London

“This town has nothing of the beauty, the history, the life of a great city.” I sighed to a buddy one day last year. I find the faux-tranquility of the English countryside almost emasculating, when contrasted with the pulsating heart of a great city, sprawling across miles of land and encompassing millions of stories. I spent the first ten years of my life in one of the world’s great cities; London, although perhaps I’m uneducated to qualify that statement, because I’ve never been to Rome or Tokyo or New York. Ah, New York, that great melting pot. Full of life as any city, one can view New York as it is in Manhattan with its cool urban beauty, home of artists and thinkers, or the nightmarish image of the city as a cesspit of corruption, immorality and self-interest depicted in Taxi Driver. The truth can never be mutually exclusive in such a place, but it would be unwise to use the latter description to promote tourism.

I’ve held a distaste for patriotism and tradition for as long as I can remember, and being in that big city for much of my formative years must have shaped that sensibility, somehow. In my time living in a quiet Surrey town, I felt adrift amidst the overwhelmingly bland vibe of Conservative (capital and small ‘c’) churchgoers and their financial comfort; people who watch Top Gear instead of the news. I yearned for the inner-city smog. As those versed in cliché say; diversity is the spice of life and, furthermore, the more blue-collar the area, the easier it is to score drugs.

#2
Creative Explorations

My interest in the arts has proved to be inescapable. As a child I read War & Peace in the time it takes to drink a cup of tea. However, the tea had cooled and gone rather sour by the end of the decade. Later, I dabbled in the Gonzo journalist movement, crafting a work that was compared contemporaneously to Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas. Its critical acclaim was regretfully not equalled with the general public. It failed to secure a wide release, as I had, in fact, taken a large quantity of hallucinogens in lieu of actually writing the novel.

#3
The Good Morning Vietnam

This was the band I was a part of between 2009 and 2012, although we were always more of an abstract concept than an actual, practising musical unit. We weren’t, however, always named after a film I’d never seen; the formative discussions of the band produced the name Equinox, prior to our adoption of the moniker Ian Baxter’s Love Train and, towards the end of our fractured tenure, our music teacher often introduced our appearances at school concerts simply as “Jack Frayne-Reid,” which always made me very self-conscious.

At the time of our first live appearance, we were perpetually “looking for a singer,” particularly as our supposed frontman, Jonn, had no desire to deliver our unlistenable version of I Am the Walrus. At this point we realised that I had always been the vocalist of the group, even though it would be over a year before I could deliver a remotely worthwhile performance and, with Dom on guitar and Timmy on drums, our first show was mired by the sound-mixing ‘suggestions’ of the music department, which rendered our guitars inaudible. Almost immediately, we fired our keyboard player.

Although we seldom strayed from our repertoire of cover songs, which consisted almost entirely of the Beatles, Neil Young and the Jimi Hendrix Experience, we soon developed a reputation for giving far less of a fuck than any other musicians in the school scene, primarily due to our fondness of spending at least ten minutes on any given song (we’d often trick the organisers into letting us play two songs under the pretence that one was a solo acoustic song by me) and to play louder than any of our more technically-gifted peers. We had a great feel, but all of us were too caught up in our own lives and musical interests to ever actually become a cohesive group. I regret this.

#4
My Eventual Death

It’s a natural tenet of humanity to be afraid of death, but at this point I’ve amassed a greater number of reasons to fear life. Life carries a great number of stresses and conflicts and, as an atheist, I believe that death is nothingness, which means that, while sentience will have, unfortunately, long passed me by, at least I’ll never have to hear another Nickelback song. If there is a hell, the most ludicrous conceptual excuse for innate human guilt, I’m certainly destined for there – not just because of God’s insecurity-founded insistence on sentencing anybody who doubts his existence to eternal damnation, but because of the numerous bad things I will presumably have done by the time I die. While I am not certain as to the exact nature of these acts, I’m working on it.

It would be nice to seek solace in religion. A friend, although not a close one, recently became a Mormon, seemingly out of the blue. Another friend theorised that it was to fill a gap in his existence, and I suppose it’s a more savoury way of seeking existential security than hiring a prostitute or becoming an addict. Mormonism is frequently victim to condescension from all angles; due to its age, it is seen as infinitely more ridiculous than its predecessor, Christianity, which espouses the idea of virgin birth. Yet, I see it as somewhat inspiring that this guy was willing to completely reconcile himself with the baggage carried by his sect in favour of a blissful eternity with its muscle-bound Jesus. The constant demand for a percentage of the worshipper’s money is certainly to the detriment of his religion’s public image, but even wealth can’t silence the reaper’s toll, except, seemingly, for Rupert Murdoch. Besides, few religions can be described as a genuine non-profit organisation; just look at Catholic architecture, or their legal defence fund.

So, I will die and, bullshit to this piece’s first paragraph, I am scared by the spectre of my looming mortality. If life were optional, I’m not sure I’d even have taken it, because death’s a pretty big catch in the whole deal.  If I end up signing out with bounds of loving friends and relatives surrounding my deathbed (which I think is a sort of 50/50 chance), it worries me that I’ll be a colossal pain in the ass for all of them. Whilst I’m a great silent sufferer, I’m even better at the verbal kind.

The day’s too fast,
You can try & slow it down,
But that won’t make you last.

The Cold Grip of Murder

To be imagined as a 1940s film noir.

Leaden footsteps echoed through the corridor. A clink of keys and there were three police officers in the interrogation room. Outside a car rolled by and the flash of headlights lit up the sunken face of the interviewee, whose empty eyes looked up from the wooden table at his hosts.

“Do have a cigarette, old boy,” offered Police Chief Jim O’Rourke.

The man nodded in acceptance and O’Rourke bent over the table to light it for him. He inhaled and sighed, and the smoke billowed visibly as DC Michael Bell, with the hand that wasn’t holding a mug of black coffee, hit the light, which flickered before settling with a rickety functionality. O’Rourke lit himself a cigarette and sighed wearily;

“You understand the press will be here by morning. I appreciate the reserved behaviour, but there is no pretending this is unimportant for either of us.  I insist you tell us at once what on earth could possess a man from your...” he coughed “...racket to turn himself in to the police.”

“You sit down and I’ll tell you,” was the growled response.

O’Rourke sat. Thunder sounded on the outside and rain slammed against the stark main road.  The interviewee sat upright, and glanced around the room. In the corner sat the old police wireless. He laughed maniacally for a second and then composed himself, and his face dropped once more, drained of life.

“Video didn’t kill the radio star...” he spat  colloquially “...I did.”

The next morning, Prime Minister David Cameron stepped into his office and opened up the day’s copy of the Daily Telegraph, a paper whose editor he had once frolicked with in his days as a young Etonian, eating sweet crumpets and branding the local poor with hot Polo sticks. No sooner had he settled down at his desk, reading the cricket reports and relaxing himself by utilising a velvet footrest, in barged his Director of Communications, Craig S. Oliver.

“How do, Oliver? I trust the Manchester Guardian has been kept from publishing another scandalous article on my government?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve had their entire editorial staff sentenced to hang.”

“Jolly good. Will that be all?”

“No, no, sir.”

“Gosh, Oliver. It’s a little early for rough and tumble, don’t you think?”

“I’m afraid there’s a rather unfortunate business brewing up in the newspapers, sir. Are you acquainted with a fellow by the name of William J. Corston?”

“The international drug smuggler? As a matter of fact, I’m rather fond of the man.”

“Yes, indeed, if you recall, he’s a most generous donor to our party...it pains me to tell you, sir, but he’s turned himself to the metropolitan.”

“My, what a drag. I did always like Corston. Good chap, tried his best...what’s the charge?”

“Have you read today’s Telegraph, sir?”

He laughed; “how else could one keep up on the Ashes?”

“Have you read anything other than the cricket section, sir?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Oliver.”

“Then I urge you to take a look at the front page.”

‘Drug lord Corston arrested in connection to the murder of Jimmy Savile,’ read the headline, the bold letters leaping at Cameron.

“How long has this been so?”

“What, sir?”

“This text on the front page. There’s an awful lot of it.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Send the editorial team a  telegram this afternoon, strongly advising them to stop this whole business. It makes for a very crowded page.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Anyway, who is this Jimmy Savile fellow?”

“He was  a disc jockey, sir.”

“I must have escaped his broadcasts on the tranny.”

“I believe he’s rather popular with the youth of today.”

“Well, isn’t that just queer.”

“Actually, sir...his...popularity with the youth of today is somewhat of a problem in itself.”

“Please elaborate...” Cameron yanwed, before raising his voice “SAMANTHA, WHERE ARE MY CRUMPETS?”

“Yes, sir...seems he was a bit of a rotten sort, you might say.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it appears that he had a taste for...”

Samantha Cameron ambled through the door and presented her husband with a steaming plate of crumpets.

“Fancy a crumpet, Oliver?”

“No, thank you, sir. It appears that Savile met with a considerable amount of underage boys and girls, and had a bit of a taste for,” he broke into a whisper “intercourse, Mr Cameron.”

Cameron leaped into action and pointed at the door.

“Samantha, dear;  make yourself scarce,” she scurried out of the room, and Cameron locked the door, peeping through the keyhole to make sure the foolish woman wasn’t eavesdropping. He returned to his desk, and faced Oliver, “how many are we talking about, here? An acceptable amount?”

“Sir, it’s a rather long list. Around three-hundred or so.”

“I should jolly well say it’s none of our damn business, Oliver, what a man does in the privacy of his own home, nor car, other people’s homes, places of work, eating emporiums...ah, Gideon.”

Cameron’s old chum from Eton, Gideon Osborne, had stopped by for a cup of tea.

“How’s the economy, old chap?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” chuckled Osborne, and the other two joined in raucously. “Just caught up with Philip Hammond,” he paused at the blank look on the PM’s face, “the secretary of state for defense.”

“The homosexual?”

“No, sir, that was his predecessor, Mr Fox.” Oliver corrected.

“And what the devil did he want?”

“Saudi Arabia, David. One of the colonies, I think... they wish to purchase some weaponry.”

“I suppose you’d better check the kitty, Oliver. Surely we have some leftovers from the war?”

“I’ll make a note of it, sir.”

“Oh, Gideon, I don’t suppose you know some sort of radio presenter...fellow called Savile?” Cameron asked Osborne.

“Certainly. I believe he was close to Mrs Thatcher.”

“We were all close to Mrs Thatcher...” wisecracked Cameron.

“Ho ho ho! It’s as if we’re back in Eton.” said Osborne.

“Oliver tells me the old blighter had a taste for young girls.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Yes, well, it seems the press have caught on,” Oliver explained, “and it’s become a rather nasty business, not least for the British Broadcasting Corporation. It seems they may have covered up some of the incidents in question.”

“’Incidents,’ you say? Surely a dead man’s playful joshing is of no business to anybody but himself and his maker?” Osborne huffed.

“It seems that he may have gone so far as...S-E-X.”

“Gadzooks. Who were these children? I trust the old fellow was sensible enough to keep it in the family.”

“No, old pal. It seems to be somewhat wider than that - a right royal kerfuffle...Oliver?”

“Yes, sir. The press are putting increasing pressure on us to launch an enquiry into culture and practises in the BBC, and it seems that this chap had more-than-tenuous connections to the Royals and the wider establishment.”

“Damn shame, damn shame. What I really want to know is, where does this Corston character come into it?”

A streetlight cast a hew of sallow grey over Scotland Yard. O’Rourke’s tailcoat billowed in the harsh wind and a page from the dossier of paperwork he clutched blew out onto the streets. He looked back, gritting his cigarette in his teeth, then walked on.  He never liked that page anyway. Inside, he looked inquisitively through the bars of cell 462, the subject of his gaze being one William Corston, who sat in the dark with his eyes closed and his fists clenched. The ketamine racket in London was not the same without its figurehead, and Corston felt the burden of abandoning the business he’d spent his life building and legitimising. O’Rourke opened up the door, and sat down beside Corston.

“Why should I believe that the famous Willy Corston killed Jimmy Saville?”

“Because you have my word,” grunted Corston, finally opening his eyes.

“Sometimes word’s not good enough, Corston. This goes beyond you and I.”

“I killed him. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

Corston had men on the streets all through Britain to distribute his product, but when it came to celebrity customers, he preferred to take a hands-on approach that befitted the larger amounts of money involved. As he sat in that dank cell, he remembered finding Savile’s front door unlocked, and helping himself to a cigar that sat on a cabinet in the hallway, lighting it on one of the candles that provided the only illumination to the endless, black corridors. He’d served Savile before, but never in his place of residence. Then he heard the noises upstairs. Wedging the cigar between his teeth and putting his back into dragging the sack of five ounces of uncut horse tranquilisers up the spiral staircase. When he reached the top, Will paused for breath, and looked around. Savile’s bedroom, where the gasps emitted from must be to the far left, by a taped-up window that overlooked a crooked oak tree. Will opened the bedroom door and dropped the product. She ran out at once, shrieking.

“You fuckin’ nonce twat!” Will yelled, pumping his customer with lead.

Back in the cell, O’Rourke was curious to hear the tale recounted, but still dubious.

“But the autopsy showed no signs of foul play.” He ruminated.

“Take another look, and I’ll guarantee you’ll see I ain’t bullshittin’ ya.” Will confidently declared.

“What are you waiting for, Corston? Get up. I’ve got a car here!”

They drove to the cemetery in an unmarked cop car through the blistering cold and a storm whirled above their heads, the lightning seeming to strike a pole somewhere, causing the car’s radio to splutter as the signal was lost. The BBC crackled and shut down. O’Rourke hit the brakes, stopping on a sodden dirt road that snaked up towards the graves. He threw the cigarette he’d been smoking to the ground out of respect for the dead, and unlocked the boot, taking out a shovel. Corston eyed the cigarette butt, mangled by the wet, that had formed the lawman’s gesture. He sniggered cynically, and took a drag on his own.

“I trust I don’t need to handcuff you, Corston.” O’Rourke snuck him a sideward glance.

“I was never much into that sort of thing, myself...”

Savile’s grave was found at the top of the hill the cemetery was built upon; Here lieth Sir James Savile – Friend of children. Alternately wiping his brow and shivering in the bleak winter, O’Rourke crashed the spade into the earth with a great power, thumping upon the ground like the tolls of the reaper. A flash of lighting emitted in the sky, and a mound of airborne dirt disintegrated in its sharp gaze, landing with a soft thud upon Corston’s left foot. He looked down, threw his cigarette and, without a word, took the shovel off the policeman, taking over the excavation.

“You got a broad in your life, O’Rourke?”

“Huh. With this job? Only dame I ever meet is the wife of whatever dumb hood gets bumped off this week.”

“I’d like to see my moll one more time before I’m left to rot in the joint. One of them, anyway.”

“Now, now, Corston. If you continue your cooperation with us, we could be very lenient indeed. It’s not out of the question for us to cut your senten-“

Before he could finish, the shovel connected with wood. Corston reeled back, the contours of his face amplified by another resonant lightning strike.

“We’re in.”

“Good chap. Crack open the coffin, won’t you?” Corston did so; he lifted the spade above his head, and brought it down upon the coffin with a great force. The wood splintered, but it was not yet open. He hit it once more, and the lid fractured into two jagged halves, falling aside to reveal the corpse of James Savile. O’Rourke dropped to his knees and examined the body.

“Interesting. Somehow the morticians failed to notice the seventeen bullet holes in his corpse!”

“What did I tell you?” Corston sighed, taking a glance. “That’s him, alright.”

“I mean, were they on marihuana?! His arm’s been shot off!”

“Maybe they was on his payroll. It wouldn’t look good if it got out that he’d been done in ‘cause ‘e was a wrong-‘un. Uh, it don’t look good right now, for example.”

“Damnit, Corston. This mystery just gets deeper. Don’t suppose you have a bottle of hooch on you?”

“Not...quite, no. Mind if I...?” O’Rourke shrugged as Corston got up, and heaved at the adjacent gravestone to Saville’s. Without any strain, it came up, and he picked up something from underneath, replacing the stone and sitting down next to O’Rourke with a bag of ketamine. He dipped his finger into it and sniffed, and then offered it to O’Rourke, who obliged.

A wizened hunchback of around ninety years of age had scuttled up the hillside, and leered in front of them. The lightning struck yet again, as it so often seems to in this sort of situation. “Telephone for you, Mr O’Rourke...” came the oral slime from this monstrosity’s distorted kisser.

The glass of the chapel was stained, and not just with paintings of worship. Through it, the huddled figure of O’Rourke could be seen pacing, the receiver clasped stiffly to his ear, bathed in the dull light of the full moon. Back at the hill’s peak, Corston indulged in another line – perhaps his last as a free man. He turned around when he heard O’Rourke’s footsteps coming closer.

“Bad news, Corston. I’m afraid we must be getting back.”

“What’s gone wrong?”

“It’s the Director General of the BBC, George Entwistle! They found him this morning...”
“What, dead?”
“No, even worse – resigned!”

“That’s some tough shit. What’s the story?”

“It seems the story was improperly researched. Some public information flick by the name of Newsnight went out, falsely accusing Baron McAlpine of being an accomplice of Savile. Entwistle had no choice but to take the fall.”

“I understand. I’m ready.” Corston sighed, tucking his ket away in the folds of soil, and hanging his head solemnly, waiting for O’Rourke to lead him back to his car.

“Hold it there, O’Rourke.” Came a voice from behind them. Will began to turn around. “And you, Corston. I’m armed to the teeth and ready to blow you both to hell.”

“Recognise this worm’s dulcet tones?” Corston sneered at the supposed captor.

“Well, it’s certainly not the hunchback, as it’s vaguely intelligible. That you, Bell?”

“Right you are, O’Rourke!” sniffed the suppose subordinate, DC Michael Bell. His face quivered with fear, but his feet remained glued to the ground.

“I must say, old chap, this is rather a drag. May we at least turn around and see you?”

“...Go on, then! But any funny business, and I’ll whack the both of you!”

Corston and O’Rourke turned around and faced Bell, who tried his best to uphold his composure.

“What are you doing here?” he yelled.

“I could ask you the same question.” Huffed O’Rourke indignantly.

“I was on my own way here, to replace Savile’s body with another,” down on the dirt road, an overwhelmingly pungent aura of a disgraced (and now, recently-shot) glam-rock star tied up in the whole twisted Savile affair, hummed from Bell’s car, “that way the truth about his murder will never be revealed.”

“You’ll never get away with this, you bent cop.” Screamed Corston.

“Hey, I’m a family man!” replied the affronted Bell.

“What d’you do it for, Bell?” O’Rourke quizzed him, “How much money did you make? How much abuse did you cover up?”

“You didn’t like his broadcasts, O’Rourke? Any abuse I covered up enabled millions of hard-working Englishmen to enjoy decades of classic entertainment, on the wireless, television programming, public appearances. Everything I did was for the greater good.”

“You’ve gone wrong, Bell. You’ve got a part missing.”

“I think you’re a bellend.” Corston added.

“Where did this evil spring from? You were a good man!”

“I’m a better man than you, O’Rourke.” Came Bell’s guttural howl, as he tightened his grip on his gat “Thirty years I worked the daily beat outside the Broadcasting House.  Did my duty for King and country! I had to be within meters of Jeremy Clarkson...frequently! Do you have any idea what that can do to a man?!”

“I didn’t know, Bell!” O’Rourke stepped forward “It’s no wonder you’re deranged. I’m deeply sorry. Let’s just go back to HQ and we can...”

But it was too late. Bell gripped the trigger, shooting O’Rourke in the chest. He collapsed to the rain-soaked ground. However, O’Rourke had saved Corston’s life by stepping in front of Bell, distracting the crazed maniac. Corston socked him in the jaw and grabbed the gun out of his hand, pumping a spot of lead into him for good luck. The lightening ceased and Will Corston stood atop the hill amidst the soft moonbeam, gun in his hand, bodies of the two men lying at his feet like Hamlet at its close. The hunchback peered out from lower down the hill, and Corston eyed him with a resigned certainty.

“Hold the line, Victor. Looks like I’ll be needing to use that telephone.”

“Just thought I’d tell you, sir, McAlpine seems to be holding up rather well, considering the circumstances. It can’t be easy being an innocent man called out for pederasty on national television.” Oliver was pontificating in the heat of 10 Downing Street.

“He was innocent?” Cameron asked.

“So it seems, sir.”

“And him, a baron...I need a holiday until this whole nasty business blows over. What was that place in the far east, again, Oliver? Afghanistan, was it?”
“Saudi Arabia, sir.”
“Yes, yes, South Africa. Charter me a private flight for tomorrow morning and I’ll hobnob with the royals over there. They do have royals, Oliver?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jolly good. Just do not let the press get wind of this – I’m getting most irritated by their constant cries of ‘questionable human rights record’ this, or ‘unethical business dealings’ that.”

“Yes, sir, well, there’ll be none of that nonsense in Saudi Arabia, I’m sure of that.”

Oliver put his arm around Cameron and led him out of the office, past the set scowls of his predecessors, forever encased in paint upon the wall, past the bustle of the party people and the civil servants, attempting to deflect the controversy that was moving up the ranks of establishment so rapidly, past Gideon and past Philip Hammond, and past the iconic front door and into the grip of the anonymously high-end black Jaguar.

“Oliver,” David chuckled, patting him on the back as he followed him into the back seat, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Party Politics and its Victims

I ranted about this on Twitter a few days ago so I thought it might be apt to resurrect this blog in order to articulate my thoughts outside of a 140-character context.

I really hate party politics. I'm sure that Twitter has nurtured this deep-lying feeling of detest, but more than anything else I just really despise the effect that it seems to have on people. Party politics has become very much a way for the non-politicians of the world to get out their Westminster doll sets and pretend that they too are part of this close-knit, Eton bred inner circle of opportunists and pseudolutionaries. In a democratic society, the concept of free-thought has been thought to go hand in hand, but instead we live in an age where politicians preach figures that most people don't understand in an arms race of adopting the most compelling rhetoric to sway the fickle in your favour.

Everyone who finds an interest in politics eventually decides that it's a natural next-step to adopt a political party, whom they most identify with. But once this is done, the whole idea of independent construction of ideals goes completely out the window as they lap up whatever their party pukes out and feel an ingrained duty to defend it as their own thought however well they can. For me this became more evident than ever when the Liberal Democrat supporters (Democrats, as in Social Democratic) decided that Nick Clegg tearing up his own pre-election student fees pledges meant that their own opinions were torn up with it. I just can't fathom how someone can defend something as such a sound ideal, until a politician corrects them and they suddenly go full circle. Trying to mate ideals with a new form of political-relativism is the most oxymoronic concept I can think of; ideals are absolute and they are your own, not to be shepherded by whomever happens to win a party election. The whole idea behind democracy is that people are free to think as they like and express their own opinions onto a representative parliament every time election day comes around, but somewhere along the way people have forgotten to think themselves and just followed whatever their respective party tells them to think. And it's most ironic of all in a group of supposed 'liberals' who are freely chaining themselves up in our bike rack of Westminster mind-fascism.

I don't intend for this to just attack the Lib-Dems, as I believe this is something ubiquitous throughout party politics and all that it devours. It's just ever-more personal to me as I myself was caught up in the Lib-Dem 2010 hype and would I have been old enough would indeed have cast my vote their way. But once I began seeing and disagreeing with what they did in their new position, at no point did I consider the possibility that whilst it may seem completely counteractive to my own ideals, Nick Clegg was the best person to look after my ideals for the time being and as such I should entrust them to him to do as he wished. It seemed much more obvious that they were no longer a party I could identify with, and as such my support vanished automatically.

With each new policy thousands of people wheel themselves into a bandwagon of thoughts they had never considered before, but adopt them as their own without resistance or consideration. Because this is your party, isn't it, with your interests at heart - so it follows naturally that what they're proposing has to be in your best interests, right? There were 3 main political parties at the last general election, who between them harboured 88.1% of the vote. Does anyone really think that in a free-thinking society, all the varieties and dilutions of opinions can be aptly considered in 3 political manifestos? It's regrettable enough that we have a parliament where whips discourage individual thought in favour of political points, but what I don't think the rest of the country understands is that this does not apply to you. This is not your career and you are not ruining your chance of a ministerial position if you dare to think against a party policy. How anyone can defend 100% of their party policies is beyond me, or even 50%. Ed Miliband and David Cameron will not raise your defection from the Labour party or the Conservative party prescribed line of thought in the next parliament meeting, so why pretend you can seriously identify with such a massive proportion of what your party thinks? It's as if everytime anyone goes 'actually, I don't like this latest policy' the opposing partisan tweeters will combine together to shout "AHA! A chink in your party's armour! WE ARE SUPERIOR!"

We seem to live in a place where what you think on an issue has to be delayed until someone you respect tells you want to think. I prefer not to encase myself in the partisan, because I don't believe that what you think should be processed through a Westminster dilution process. Your ideals are only ever your own, but people seem to think of 'idealism' as a bad thing. Think what you want and defend what you think, don't think what they want and defend it as your own.

Since Edd's paranoid departure from our number, our second subtitle begs the question;

Who has two dicks?

Summer holidays.

We haven't posted here in a long time. Let's say we're on holiday.

For those of you who absolutely need my writing, I knocked up a few film reviews here;

http://letterboxd.com/illflyaway/

Sebastian, issue two

First few paragraphs of this can be seen:

http://adventuresofasuburbanstreetposse.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/sebastian.html

On this morning the alarm was allowed 5 dulling rings before he begrudgingly swung his arm with an accurate blow to the ‘snooze’ button. This was followed by the usual morning denial, as Sebastian asked himself whether he really needed to get up, before concluding the same answer he always did – yes – and removing the covers with a sigh.

He put on his dressing gown and mechanically walked down the stairs in the same steps he did yesterday and the day before. When your life revolves around the same routine, over and over again, it’s drilled into your hard-drive and robotically becomes all you’re used to. Eventually all you’re used to becomes all you dare to do, and the thought of leaving what you know so well is utterly absurd. If you live like a robot, you will become a robot, as Sebastian was oblivious to oh so well.

When he reached the kitchen, clean but for a few pots and pans waiting to be dried and sentenced back to their rightful place, he reached to his right and turned on the lightswitch without looking. He then turned towards the cupboards on his left and removed a bowl - a dull blue and something you’d expect to find as state regulation kitchenware in a Communist regime. He bought it from a car boot sale 3 years ago and always ate breakfast from it.

After pouring himself the Supermarket value equivalent of Rice Krispies, whatever they were called – he never read the packet - he sat himself in his chair at the four person table in his dining room. It was 5 to 7 and he mused to himself about the day ahead and what exciting endeavours it might entail. He wondered whether Carly had replied to his email about his departmental budget and where he might go to lunch that day. He then decided he would go to the café he always went to, although it wasn’t really a decision; it was more of a reaction.

When you do your times-tables enough, knowing that 7 multiplied by 8 is 56 isn’t mathematical logic – it’s just a reaction. It’s something you know, as a fact, and something you wouldn’t challenge because you know it’s right. You don’t need to re-examine the logic because you’ve examined it before and you still trust it and don’t see why it need be changed. It was the same for Sebastian and going to that café for lunch: a long time ago he’d asked himself where he wanted to go for lunch and he thought the café looked nice, nicer than the canteen at work some of his colleagues went to and nicer than that bistro down the road. He didn’t see why any of this had changed, and when he asked himself what he wanted to do for lunch, he wasn’t really asking. He just followed the logic he always had; that logic he trusted and that had never let him down, that never changed.

Confident in this reaction, Sebastian cleared the table and went back upstairs to shower and get dressed. He had no lingering regrets about his decision and as far he was concerned that was the issue solved for the day, another little victory in a day of tiny hurdles.

What happens when I fill out an application form for a freelance writing site.

Describe a hop bush:

A "hop bush" is an affectionate term for a well-known children's game, which involves locating an item of foliage, and "hopping" over it, so to speak, in a manner designed to provoke frivolity amongst participants and spectators alike. At times, the bush in question may be excessively large, and the bush-hopper's resultant fall into the complex of wood and greenery has been known to result in a jovial sense of slapstick humour. The method favoured by today's younger generations involves an additional stipulation of the unwritten set of rules; the bush must be private property, generally belonging to a prominent public figure, or at least somebody in a high tax bracket. Devoted bush-hoppers will meticulously research their target on Google to establish that their activity is justified. Once the bush has been hopped over, in a manner not dissimilar to a bunny rabbit's preferred method of transportation, those who participate in the festivities will feel like they have suitably shown a proverbial middle-finger to the establishment.

List the steps to roofing a house:

Step #1 - get a house (note: preferably one with no roof - the presence of a roof can cause insurmountable complications in a roof-buidling situation)
Step #2 - purchase a large amount of bricks, mortar (note: not the time-honoured item of heavy artillery) and a ladder (note: one can also choose to purchase thatch, but this leaves the homeowner susceptible to attacks by Big, Bad Wolves)
Step #3 - put bricks on top of the house, and stick them there with mortar. This can be achieved via the twin arts of putting and sticking. The ladder will be of valuable assistance to the act of one's ascension to the hightened level of the roof.
Step #4 - repeat the above step for a number of days.
Step #5 - build a chimney. The absence of a chimney can be of great inconvenience to Father Christmas, and nobody likes a Scrooge. This involves bricks and stuff.
Step #6 - hey presto! You now have yourself a roof. You've left the bricks to dry and now, no longer will the upper storey of your house be as frosty as the current economic climate, and aircraft-bound voyeurs will be hindered in their peeping-tommery as their vision is eclipsed by a nice, confident roof, made out of bricks and mortar and ladders. Congratulations. You've made it in the world.

Tell us about your favourite website:

[the site I'm applying to] is my favourite website of all time, for a number of reasons. For a start, the generously large text boxes provided in their application form are a beautiful sight to behold, almost as beautiful as the beige background that adds a wistful sense of gorgeous melancholy to proceedings. When I said "a number" of reasons, I meant "two". Two is a number, and thus I was entirely justified in my phrasing of that sentence. Perhaps I should have said "an even number" and narrowed down the criteria, but that doesn't have the same catchy ring to it.

What makes you a better fit for this position than other applicants?

I'm not aware of the other applicants, their merits and foibles; in fact I think they could very well all be infinitely better than me. One of my virtues would be that I'm very prolific - for instance, I recently wrote a novel twice the length of War & Peace in the time it took me to drink a cup of tea. However, the tea had gone rather sour by the end of the decade. Another literary endeavor of mine was compared contemporaneously to the 'Gonzo journalism' of Hunter S. Thompson's Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas. The only reason you won't have heard of it is that, when I went to present it to the publisher, I realised that I'd merely taken a large arsenal of psychedelic drugs instead of actually writing the novel.

Revised best movies of 2011

Howdy, I've now finished my exams (which I will never speak of again), and written the first draft of my screenplay (more on that some other time) so I feel I should devote some more time to getting back into short-form writing. For a start, my list of this blog's favourite movies of the year 2011 was, simply, a big old load of bullshit. A film like Horrible Bosses was enjoyable fluff, sure, but Top 10 material? No way! Here is a Top 15, with some little blurbs by the movies I neglected to watch by my self-imposed deadline for the last one.

15. The Ides of March

Written by George Clooney, Grant Heslov and Beau Willimon

Directed by George Clooney

14. Horrible Bosses

Written by Michael Markowitz, John Francis Daley and Jonathan Goldstein

Directed by Seth Gordon

I did like this one! You don't see Kevin Spacey much these days, do you?

13. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

Written by Bridget O'Connor and Peter Straughan

Directed by Tomas Alfredson

12. Submarine

Written & Directed by Richard Ayoade

11. Super 8

Written & Directed by J.J. Abrams

10. The Rum Diary

Written & Directed by Bruce Robinson (I like how the "written & directed"s are starting to come thick and fast. I prefer a director to write their own films)

9. 50/50

Written by Will Reiser

Directed by Jonathan Levine

I'm always surprised by how many films I like that involve the acting of Seth Rogen. Here he's Joseph Gordon Levitt's best friend, and Joseph has cancer. Will Reiser wrote a great script based on his own experiences, which compensates for Jonathan Levine's pedestrian straight-off-the-TV directorial style. At times it feels like a generic tearjerker, but I think this film's deeper than that. A good one.

8. Blackthorn

Written by Miguel Barros

Directed by Mateo Gil

7. Drive

Written by Hossein Amini

Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn

Hey, the director spells his name like Nicolas Cage!

6. Red State

Written & Directed by Kevin Smith

Any long-term readers of this blog will be well aware that I hate, hate, hate religion, and Kevin Smith's best film since Dogma*, while not exactly concurring with me, puts forth a pretty good case for how belief enables despicable people to do despicable things. Sure, it can lead people to, say, philanthropy too but, frankly, I find it hard to sympathise with somebody who needs an imaginary friend and an ancient book to tell them to be nice to people. As a defiantly anti death-penalty type, I too find it hard to mourn the death of any religious fundamentalist, as they're definitely closer to their God than ever before. I literally became furious at this thought-provoking film as it occured to me that figures like Michael Parks' fire-and-brimstone preacher actually exist, and no doubt would gun down heathens searching for sin if they could. Of course, in the hilariously anti-climatic and very well-written all-but-final scene, Smith puts forth a far better argument than I feel able to at the moment, which culminates in a simple "fuck these people." 

To return to Parks, his performance has been praised more than any other aspect of this underrated film, yet he performs an incredible sermon at one point, which has received much criticism for going on and on and on and on. I watched this on the last day of school, so maybe I was too drunk and stoned to notice, but I was sucked in by the power of this man's acting. The length (15 mins or so, I think?) didn't seem excessive. It didn't grind the movie to a standstill. Kevin Smith knows how to write great dialogue and, while the more action-based John Goodman-helmed segment may be more immediately thrilling, not to mention the traditional teen horror setup at the start, there's more power in Parks' disgusting monologue than in anything physically violent.

*I'm just saying that, by the way. I haven't seen any Kevin Smith films that came out between this and Dogma, because I'm told they all suck cock. No! No! No! Wait! I saw that Jay & Silent Bob film. What an awful film that was.

5. The Skin I Live In

Written & Directed by Pedro Almodóvar

I'm such a lazy writer that I'm just pooped after churning out a couple of paragraphs on Red State, but primarily the reason for this blurb's brevity is that The Skin I Live In is a film that must be approached with an open mind. Some of the elements involved in its labyrinthine plot are; a bank robber dressed in a tiger costume, a vaginoplasty, a vendetta of incredible magnitude, medical corruption and the greatest performance by Antonio Banderas one could hope to imagine.

4. Carnage

Written by Yasmina Reza & Roman Polanski

Directed by Roman Polanski

Acclaimed child molester Roman Polanski seemed to release this film casually, with little fanfare. The reasons for this one slipping under the radar no doubt lie in its almost claustrophobic feel for a major motion picture, which comes from the story's origin in the theater. Set entirely in one apartment (ok, I lie; there are some shots of a playground, a lift and a hallway too. Shoot me!), the acting is top-drawer, with Jodie Foster, Kate Winslet, Christoph Waltz (you know...Tarantino's "Jew Hunter") and John C. Reilly. They fight, and bond, and then they fight again and, yeah, mostly they fight. Pretty good movie. It ain't no Chinatown, but he's still got it.

3. Rango

Written by John Logan

Directed by Gore Verbinski

2. Shame

Written by Steve McQueen & Abi Morgan

Directed by Steve McQueen

Not that Steve McQueen. This isn't Bullit. No, no, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. Michael Fassebender and Carey Mulligan are the best actor and actress around, at least of their generation. Yes, they both get TOTALLY FULL FRONTAL. It's a film about SEX. It might as well be a PORNO, eh? Sounds like an interesting novelty, but you don't care when you're watching this film. It's a masterpiece, and tenfold better than Midnight In Paris, but a tiny notch down in preference. Harrowing and stunning and amazing. I could hardly think once I'd watched it.

1. Midnight In Paris

Written & Directed by Woody Allen

EDIT: Oh fuck Kill List! Classic movie.

Note from Jack

Exams -Stop- Trying to revise -Stop- Failing -Stop- Worth a go, though -Stop- Hence no stories for a little while -Stop- Finish on Thursday -Stop- Least Harvey's back to keep you company -Stop-

Over and out.

Exams

As of last Friday, my exams are over.

I know that first year 'doesn't count' and that at school they used to tell us that the step up to Sixth Form is harder than the step up to first year, but I have never worked harder in my life. I have never been one of those annoying motivated cunts who is just able to drum up the effort from seemingly nowhere to put in the preparation for exams, but for the past month or so I was exactly that.

I estimated a while back that I did about 20 hours revision for my A Level end of year exams. This is bearing in mind that 2/3 of them did not have January modules and were my entire year in one horrific sitting. I must have done at least 6 times that for these bad-boys. English, I didn't revise at all. It was hard to revise English because all you can really do is learn quotes, but my memory for those kind of things is, thankfully, awesome and there wasn't much additional memorising I needed to do. And I've never been a 'past paper' guy either; I think it's because if I struggle doing a past paper I'll just terrify myself ahead of the exam. In Year 12 I remember before my English exam I handed in a half-arsed past paper essay effort to my English teacher in the morning, she pointed out the obvious that it wasn't great, and then realising I couldn't revise at all at school I went into a fit of crazy and ran home, but my mum was out and I didn't have my keys so ended up waiting outside my house for half an hour. Eventually I got inside and chilled out for a bit, then did some work. That was my exam preparation, and as shambolic as it was I got the highest mark in the year for that exam so I must have found calm somewhere.

Geography I revised most for, I think. I know a lot of people, including myself, take the piss out of Geography but there's a lot of subject matter to cram in your brain which meant I had to do a lot more work to prepare for it. In both Years 12 and 13 I revised by going through the entire year in one day, which basically involved typing up the textbook and then committing it to memory. 

Everyone looks back at SATS and says they were easy, then everyone looks back at GCSEs and says they were easy and now I'm looking back at A-Levels, thinking how considerably easier they were. 12 hour shifts were never a daily thing for me before, but the sheer amount of stuff I had to know and the sheer amount of stuff that my brain needed serious effort to understand made them necessary. I was working 6-12 hours for a month just to pass these things.

One evening before my Public Law exam I was going through these flash cards (never done that before either) outlining what different provisions of the PACE Act did and I was so mentally exhausted my mind couldn't combine the effort of putting the cards down the right way round. I was learning 200 cases to heart per exam, and I still look at certain names of people or companies and immediately my mind connects them with the case and goes through the facts, only these names are a completely different context. 

This is really fucking hard. I've never been worked like this before and I've finally found that cut-off point where natural talent and bullshit won't carry me through any longer. Everyone finds it, and for me it's here. But I'll be gladder for putting myself through all of this if I can come through it unscathed; a stronger man, an even more pretentious lawyer. Jeff Winger never had to put up with this shit.

And now, I'm bored because there's nothing to do. I've already started reading for next year. But being able to lie-in is a godsend, and I'm slowly sleeping off those working hours.

Sebastian

I've started writing what I hope might be some kind of novel, one day, maybe. It steals from ideas that I've published before, but I guess it's kind of an extension on that short extract I published a while back, Cause and Effect. This will hopefully (and I say hopefully because it would be swell just being able to complete it as a project) be a story about Sebastian, a 27 year old waster who has essentially given up on life in knowing that nothing's worthwhile and how he finds a girl who changes this. There's not much to work with so far, I admit, but we'll see how this goes on and develops. Hopefully it will develop at any rate.

Regardless, here you go:

---------------------

In the great conga line of cause and effect, the only choice you will ever make is if you trudge along or dance.

Sebastian had trudged his way through the monotonous school system into his monotonous job in his own monotonous office. The walls, like his life, were bare; void of enjoyment and painted in soullessness. Every morning he would wake up on the same side of the bed he always did to the same ringing sound of the alarm, reminding him he was still alive, in lieu of barely remembering himself. Like Prufrock, he had measured out his life in coffee spoons and he sat himself at the edge of the table: close enough to hear the conversation but never so much as to engage in what they were saying, and far enough away for nobody to notice his empty look barrelling down to his hollow interior.

At 27 years old, he had spent his life getting by on the very least required. He lived his life on the edge of the minimum quartile and, having never pushed himself, stood motionless as the world moved ahead of him, as people got promoted above him and as the friends he once knew raced ahead, leaving him behind in that same spot he’d grown so accustomed to. People spend their lives looking for that feeling of ‘home’; for children it’s returning to their house after a long day at school to disappear into their own little world, for adults it’s that special person with whom they create that shared fantasy of sense of belonging, for Sebastian it was that lonely spot in between his bed and his work, that he knew would never leave him if he promised in return never to leave it.

HARRY RICHARDS: PUNK ROCK PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR (Part Two)

HARRY RICHARDS: PUNK ROCK PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

I drove out to the docks with this youth in tow. We’d’ve been there in no time, but I held us back by ten minutes when I stopped to purchase a spray deodorant for him, to keep his overwhelming malodour at bay. Naturally, he set fire to it and shoved it down my throat. Good kid, I thought. He had spunk.

“What’s your name, kid?” I asked

“I don’t have a name. Names are mainstream.”

“Then let’s cut to the chase. Why do I keep hearing about Edgar Cunt being at the docks? What could the docks possibly have to offer for a successful punk rock...” I hesitated at the next word “...singer?”

“I don’t know shit, geez. Maybe he couldn’t hack it no more. It’s a tasking lifestyle, being a punk.”

“Tasking my ass. You should’a been in ‘Nam.”

“You were in ‘Nam?”

“No, but the social stigma for conscientious objectors is damn-near intolerable.”

He looked at me with disgust. I couldn’t fathom why.

“What’s the scoop, then?” I asked “Who’s your man around here?”

“He’s here somewhere. Maybe behind that crate...”

“Why would he be behind a crate?” I said. He looked at me silently. Guess the answer was pretty obvious, I just didn’t know it. Maybe I’m not so cut out for this business anymore, I thought. I stepped behind the crate to investigate and felt something connect with the back of my head. Blacked out.

When I awoke I was greeted by a waft of what smelled like a juxtaposition of incense, marijuana, and semen. I tried to get my bearings in the darkened room, grasping at whatever I could find. Eventually I caught a light-switch and it flickered on. It was a lava lamp. I wondered what kind of godawful pit I’d been imprisoned in, but no answers immediately came to mind, so I decided to sit on the beanbag in the corner of the room and wait for somebody to come get me.

The noxious fumes had just about got to me, and I was reclining back in a golden slumber when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Opened an eye with trepidation. A dude with crystalline locks of excessive hair was gazing down at me.

“What’s the deal with all this kidnapping business?” I said “You’re lucky I’m no prude; this could be considered impolite in certain circles.”

“Word on the street is that you’ve been snoopin’ about after Edgar Cunt.”

“Snoopin’ I sure have been. I’m fuckin’ Snoop Dogg here.” He didn’t seem to get the anachronistic reference, and I’m not sure I did either

“Uh...well...I’m here to tell you...”

“Wait, you’re here to tell me? Is this not your place? Surely I’m here so you can tell me...well, whatever information you’re on the verge of divulging.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Richards. I’ve got an arsenal of Emerson, Lake & Palmer records, and I’m not afraid to use them,” he snapped.

I shuddered as I noticed the record player in the far corner of the room “Whaddya want from me?”

“I want you to leave this case be. Tell your honey from the band there was nothin’ you could do. Edgar Cunt and the Piss Merchants are history.”

I’d never hit a man so hard as I hit him that moment. What kind’a man did he think I was? One who gives up on a case? No dice. ‘Specially not when there’s some prime punk pussy involved.

With stars spinning around the enforcer’s unconscious head, I entered the main room of the complex. It was sordid. Chicks fuckin’ dudes. Dudes fuckin’ dudes. Chicks fuckin’ chicks. All the combinations. All of them seemed to have beards like overgrown rhododendron bushes, especially the chicks. Ghastly sounds emitted from the expensive speaker system; endless, meandering guitar solos. A lady looked up at me from the carnal carnage on the floor. She had fine hairy prickles with large orange hips. I think she nodded, then she went back to fuckin’. Fuckin’. Fuckin’. Too much fuckin’. As I say, I’m no prude, but what I’m talking about just ain’t decent. I wondered how long it’d take ‘til my interrogator ceased to be out cold and he and his ELP LPs caught up with me. In the bedlam of the speaker system, the guitarist tired of his display of virtuosity, and presumably slipped off the recreate the scenes of this establishment, leaving the drummer to take over. Any sane human being knows that a drum solo is a signal that it’s high time to get the fuck out of there. At that moment, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” I yelled. The guests were too stoned, and too engrossed in orgasm, to notice that none of them had any idea who I was. I opened the door.

“Oi oi. Anyone want some ket?” asked Will Corston

“Will?” I lowered my voice “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, y’know, doin’ the rounds, shifting the product. What brings you to Laurel Canyon?”

“Ah, so this is Laurel Canyon. It’s a long story. I was kidnapped. I think Edgar Cunt might be here.”

“Oh, dawdy fucking kaka.” boomed Will

“STOP!” the man who had tried to force me off the investigation was charging towards me, gat in his hand. His friends just carried on fuckin’ “You shall not leave this place!”

Corston flipped his piece into my hand, and I shot the bastard in the chest. He collapsed to the Persian-carpeted floor, his freak flag flyin’ no more. His friends kept fuckin’, although one of them was now buying some ketamine from Corston. I decided to do what I do best; investigate. Perhaps this madman’s dying words would provide the information I so desired.

“You yuppie punk rock scum” he croaked, as I towered over him

“Hey, I still favour the Hard Bop era.”

“’Fore the Piss Merchants reared their ugly heads, my group, Carter, Carter, Burrows & The Aliens were the hottest band on the Strip.”

“Looks like you got refrigerated.”

“This new generation, man...I don’t get it...”

“Hold your tongue or I’ll cap you once more, and this time it’ll be final. And don’t you ever call the Piss Merchants ugly again. Their bass player is a very attractive woman. Where’s Edgar Cunt?”

“He’s upstairs” he coughed “In the laundry room.”

“Thanks. Got any last words?”

“I...don’t think a triple-album is self-indulgent...”

And with that, he said his goodbye to this world. Can’t say it’ll be worse without him. Upstairs, I released Edgar Cunt. I knew it was him because, when I asked him, he spat in my face and kicked me down two storeys of stairs.

“Fancy giving us a ride, Will?” I asked, nursing my wounded bones

“Sure thing, mate. Where to?”

“Back to the Bedlam Cellar. I have some unfinished business to attend to.”

On the drive back, Corston sold Edgar Cunt two ounces of ket, which they proceeded to consume in their entirety throughout the drive’s fifteen-minute duration. Eschewing the traditional concept of parking on the edge of the sidewalk, Corston drove into the door of the building, throwing us out of the car windscreen. Exhilarated, I took a snort of the horse tranquilliser, for which Edgar nailed my arm to the hubcap. When I released myself, I gazed around the club; people were dancing with great enthusiasm, drinking their drinks, listening to their music, and I noticed a number of other crashed cars dotted around the room. Then I saw him; the punk rocker who supposedly had no name, responsible for leading me to what could have been an untimely death or, at the very least, a particularly unpleasant ménage-a-trois.

“Hey, cunt!” Edgar looked around at me. I assured him “Not you.” I threw a piece of glass from the shattered windscreen at the man who’d betrayed me. He yelped. “Call yourself a punk? I thought sadism was your forte. The only sorta punk you are is the kind that gets ass-fucked in prison.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yeah?” I remarked through gritted teeth

“Oh yeah.”

In a move that shocked him, I ripped off his safety-pin decorated denim jacket. Underneath lay something that nobody would dare to display in the Bedlam Cellar; a Pink Floyd t-shirt. The whole room went deadly silent.

“I...er...you know me, I’m like Johnny Rotten! I just, er, forgot to write ‘I hate’ before their name. Silly me! D’oh!” he gulped

Nobody spoke. It was so tensely silent, that you could hear a safety-pin drop. After a minute or so, the leader of the band onstage screamed “Let’s get ‘im!” and stage-dived head-first into the crowd. In a matter of moments, vigilante justice was administered on the conniving Prog-enthusiast. As she emerged from the top of the angry mob, the woman of my dreams appeared to wink at me. Then she levelled the broken bottle out of sight, and he was finished.

Two years later, Lana told me that the Piss Merchants were seeking to embrace a more New-Wave direction, with a prominent jazz influence, and I joined the band on tenor sax. I still do odd detective jobs but that’s more a hobby now and, besides, since we married I mainly associate with those in the Punk Rock community. Those folks know how to get it done without me. I still think Emerson, Lake & Palmer are fucking awful.

HARRY RICHARDS: PUNK ROCK PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR (Part One)

HARRY RICHARDS: PUNK ROCK PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

Harry Richards is my name. I’m a private investigator. A shamus. A dick. Course, you can’t use that last one in the present day. It’s a cynical world. Been in the business a few years now, approximately ten, I’d be inclined to say. Maybe...no, twelve. Twelve years I’ve been running the errands not of society as dictated by our institutions (I was in the police force for some years. Not anymore, of course. It was an acrimonious split.) but of the common folks who want something done. Maybe it’s unseemly, but ain’t my job to say. I just pocket the cash and gather the information.

Was going thru a financial rough-patch in the fall of ’76. Drinking too much, too. Ask my friends, and both of ‘em would tell you that I’m a great one for blowing it all on the brown. By “the brown”, I’m talking whiskey, of course. Not heroin. I’m no beatnik. Never been one to “get” the pop culture phenomena, inasmuch as I’ll never understand the kids’ problem with spinning a Coltrane LP and smoking a few Camels...but, heh, I guess the last couple’a generations lost their desire to wind down. Everyday grind ain’t stressful enough for ‘em, so they gotta add to the frenzy with their music and their goddamn hairstyles. Y’know, I’m sure you can gage my reaction when this broad walked into my office one day. Legs like a ladder to heaven, but I couldn’t help but notice she’d covered her body in what looked like the remnants of a crashed jet.

“Siddown, lady” I said, and she spat on my floor. This was not an unusual reaction from my customers, so I sipped my Scotch and asked her “What’s the problem?”

This time she spat in my face, but she had a verbal response too, “This guy I know’s off the map all of a sudden. Hasn’t been showing up to gigs. I’ve been subbing for him but the band are getting pissed.”

“What kinda music d’you play? Lemme guess...cocktail jazz?” She strung me up from the lightbulb by my pelvis

“Punk rock, you dinosaur. Do you never hit the Sunset Strip?”

“I dunno, is there a liquor store there?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she yelled, drenching my face in mucous “You bet your ass you know where the sunset strip is. A barfly like you would know that shit anywhere. Fucking loser.”

I dropped from the ceiling, taking my lightbulb with me “What’s the guy’s name? You got a snap?” I asked, gradually getting to my feet and massaging my pelvis

“His name’s Edgar Cunt.”

“Have you asked Mr and Mrs Cunt where their son might be?”

“Shut it, pig. And, no, of course I don’t have no fucking photo. That would be pretty lame and superficial. We’re not fucking Pink Floyd. Go to your beloved liquor store and buy the latest issue of Punk Your Pants if you want to see what he looks like. Fag.” She swung at me with a tasty left-hook and everything went to black.

When I came to, I could’a been in worse spirits. Not only had she left me my hundred dollar fee (say what you will about these Punks, preferably outside their house with a fuckin’ megaphone, they’re not dishonest), but I’d caught an upskirt on my way down. No panties. Must’a been a radical feminist. With the masochistic babe on my mind, I headed down to Anbu’s Liquor Store and, as she’d ‘requested’, purchased a copy of Punk Your Pants, mistakenly filed out of plain sight, underneath some editions of Tits Express and Banging Anal Chicks Daily. Good job I checked that section of the magazine stand pretty religiously.

As I walked back to the office I lit myself a smoke and rifled through the mag, careful to stay on the sidewalk ‘case my inattentive eyes led to an altercation with an automobile. It pained me to read about this garbage, but in a matter of minutes; there he was. Edgar Cunt. Turns out he fronted a pop group called the Piss Merchants, and they’d been getting rave reviews all across the board. The kids were flocking to their shows like sheep to an abattoir, dying to get cut up by the brutal sounds. What could’a happened to him? Maybe he’d joined another group, but I doubt there were any prospective employers as hot as the Piss Merchants. Maybe he’d been kidnapped? Some of their fans seemed pretty rabid.  There was only one way to find out; I was gonna have to pay a visit to a Punk Rock club.

In the Bedlam Cellar, I sidled up to the bar and asked the barmaid for a double whiskey on the rocks. She poured me a whiskey, spat in it, and then filled it with actual rocks. Seeking minimal ear-damage, I positioned myself on a table at the back of the bar and looked around for anybody I thought might hold the answer to the mystery of Edgar Cunt’s disappearance. Kids, I thought – they all looking the fucking same. I’d almost finished my whiskey, and it was nearly showtime for the first band by the time somebody approached me. A fine looking guy with a thick-set stature and well-kept spikes of a hairdo (by the standards of his peers) marched towards my table, and perched himself on the previously unoccupied stool next to mine. Maybe I’ve cracked it, I ruminated.

“Alright, mate?” he asked me in a deep Estuary-English accent “You want some ket?”

“Some what?”

“Y’know, ket. Ketamine. Special K. Horse tranquillisers.”

“What, are the kids not smoking pot anymore?”

“Ah, naw, naw, mate. They want summin a little more extreme, d’youknowwhaddamean? Wanna get their ket buzz on. It’s the shit, mate, trussme. Fuckin’ bangin’. Absolute piff. Wise investment, mate, I’m tellin’ ya. K –E –T. All the way from fuckin’ Compton.”

“I can do without, thanks. I got my whiskey.”

“Ah, well, never mind, never mind, that’s what I say! Will Corston, mate.” He offered me a hand, which I shook “Main man for ket in the area.”

“Pleasure. I’m Harry Richards. Private investigator. You know this band who’re playing later? The Piss Merchants?”

“Not on a personal basis, G, but I know someone who does.”

We walked towards another table, populated entirely with grotesque figures of punk decadence. Will introduced us.

“This is Sonny Fuckface, plays guitar for Gentile Spirit, the best Nazi Punk group on the Strip.”

“Pivotal figures in the musical hate movement” sniffed a balding, bespectacled guy rather pompously. I later found out he was a music journalist  by the name of Garden.

“Sonny, this guy’s Harry Richards. He...”

“I run a label.” I quickly intercut. Mr Fuckface took this as an opportunity to square up to me with real venom

“Oh yeah?” he said “You wanna sign us? Oi oi.”

“Listen up, Fuckface, I’m askin’ the questions here. You know a guy called Edgar Cunt?”

“Edgar Cunt? Sure I know Edgar Cunt.”

“When d’you last see him?”

“Why, you wanna sign him? We piss on his shit band.”

“I wanna sign anybody with that Punk Rock spirit. Just answer my questions.”

“Yeah, I spat on him only yesterday.”

“Where? You got the info, and I might have something for you.”

“He was getting in a Taxicabcar. Said he was heading for the docks.”

“The docks? What’d he be doing there?”

“Fuck do I know? You gonna sign us up?”

“Well, are you playing tonight?”

“What kinda fuckin’ Label Boss doesn’t know the line-up?”

“Ah...well...I’m only second in command. Before I make any decisions, I’d have to consult my superior, Mr Goldstein...”

He kicked my scrotum to the Himalayas and left me alone.

I’d managed to hobble back to my seat just in time to see the Piss Merchants take the stage. There she was. Ripped jeans, ripped t-shirt, several areas of ripped flesh, she played bass with the least groove I’d ever heard, and sang in a manner that sounded less like the deliverance of a melodic pattern than the erotic cries of a predatory jungle beast. I was in love. Transfixed with her, I didn’t avert my eyes from the centre of the stage even when the guitarist fashioned his machine-head into a shank and brutally stabbed a member of the audience in the front row, actually creating music with more melodic structure than the rest of their set. Sounded kind’a like Miles. I may’ve been in hell, my balls killed me, the whiskey sucked, but damn. That broad.  I heard a voice in my ear. At first I thought I was just imagining her post-coital whispers, but in an instant I realised two things; firstly, it was not in her nature to whisper. Secondly, I could smell the stale body odour of a late-teen male.

“Hey...you.”

“Hello?” I turned ‘round, irritated. It was your common-variety punk rocker

“I hear you’re a Dick?”

“Don’t call me that!”

“No, I mean, a Private Investigator.”

“Oh yeah, I am.”

“And you’re looking for Edgar Cunt?”

“Sure am.”

“I’ve think I might be able to help you.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

Today in Badassery: Issue #1

Been a bit quiet here as of late, but I haven't stopped writing. This is a new feature that will hopefully become regular, as I endeavour to present our loyal readership with the most badass things from popular culture, or the wider world (I'm told that it exists, but I may have been mislead). Our first "Today in Badassery" feature is dedicated to the following image;

In addition to reforming Crazy Horse, Neil Young appears to have written an autobiography, which is set to be pretty fucking badass because he's Neil fucking Young. Entitled Waging Heavy Peace, as those of you who are remotely literate can surely tell from the above image, it looks like a veritable cornucopia of badassery, as one would expect from Neil Young. Although Jimmy McDonough pretty comprehensively covered the great man's life in 2001's highly-recommended Shakey, it will no doubt be brilliant and fantastic and wonderful to hear the story told by Neil himself. Bob Dylan proved himself to be excellent with prose when he released Chronicles Volume 1 in 2004, and Neil's the closest thing to another Dylan. Big it up!

Other badass elements: He's wearing a cool hat, like he's about to smoke your ass down with a Tommy Gun, and inside it is a little note that reads "Hippie Dream". Hippie Dream, for those of you not in the know in the world of Neil Young, is a song off 1986's much-reviled-but-totally-cool-if-you-worship-the-ground-Neil-walks-upon synth-pop effort Landing On Water ("is this Duran Duran?" - D. Menham). A propulsive but obviously synthy rock jam, it's a cynical take on the manner in which, while Neil kept turnin' over new pages, his friends David Crosby and Stephen Stills lost their substantial talents by coking themselves to absolute shit. This shows that there is no way in hell the greatest rock star of all time will be looking at the movement he was such a crucial part of thru rose-tinted glasses.

Needless to say, Waging Heavy Peace will be fucking badass.

Naked Lovers

OK this one is a bit lovey-dovey so before you get the pitchforks out please note that I promise I'll explain my heinous actions, but only after you've read the poem - otherwise it would be like explaining a punchline before telling the joke.

Naked Lovers

Shedding clothes like bad memories

And carelessly casting them to the floor

To drown in a capitulating carpeted sea,

Disappear and mean nothing; no more.

The world around fading into footnotes

As they heave off each other’s days:

Splashing to the ground like a relieved raincoat

And sinking into the depths of the arcane.

Discovering each other with their eyes;

Wearing nothing but their souls over their skin

They embrace all that they can surmise

And engorge all they can of each other’s being.

As reality around all falls apart

They balance bare on their plateau

Hidden deep in a room inside their heart

From the mortal clutch of tomorrow.

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Any of you who have read any of the poems I've posted here before will know that my writing tends to lend itself towards a dark, depressing outlook but I thought I'd take the opportunity this time to explore a lighter idea. I think of writing as unwrapping an idea and folding it out into something structured, and the idea I dwelled on here is that love is to stand utterly naked in front of someone. I don't mean naked in the physical sense (although that too, I guess) but to completely bare oneself as a being. So for me love is two people standing naked in front of each other, having peeled each other away until nothing but the soul sticks out. And I guess what I tried to do here was explore that fragility and extreme sense of personal closeness. Please don't hate me.

Party Technique

Howard Goldstein awoke one day to find that he was no longer capable of enjoying himself. Little things would irritate him, like the way his desk was in front of a window that faced the sun, which obscured his view of his laptop computer. He trudged through the day without vigour, and almost resented it when he was forced to leave the comfortable solitude of his bedroom to attend a friend’s birthday celebrations.

Rather than accentuating the positives or negatives of the party, Goldstein’s beer was just...beer, he thought. He nevertheless endeavoured to get drunk, and succeeded. The so-called social lubricant never quite came into effect, and he walked from person to person, drinking some more light alcoholic beverages and wondering if there would be some conversation that would suit his, frankly, Goldstein pondered, particularly anal rhetorical standards. Aside from conversing enjoyably with a couple of good friends, he could only think about the emptiness of the situation. Internally, he continued to grumble. The music was too loud. The chart hits all work to a very uninventive formula. The quips that generally provided the crux of his social activity would lose effect if shouted over the  lowest-common-denominator pop garbage, because the phrasing is so necessary. Eventually, he decided to retreat to the host’s empty bedroom and roll a joint.

Goldstein took his tin out of his satchel-style bag and produced all the necessary components for smoking some pot. However, no sooner had he licked the sticky strip of the rolling paper, than he was no longer alone in the bedroom. Rather than, as he hoped, being any of the attractive female guests he had neglected to converse with, he was now accompanied by God himself.

“Howard,” asked God “why don’t you just go and talk to your friends?”
Goldstein figured he should address the question front-on, and make his own queries later
“It’s so vacuous out there. The conversation’s inane, some of the behaviour’s obnoxious, the music’s shit, and I don’t really have a connection with anyone.”
“Man up. If you want to be friends with people, rather than just an acquaintance they occasionally see slinking through the hallway with a drink, you have to make the effort.”
“Hey, with all due respect,” posed the affronted Goldstein “you don’t exactly go out of your way to be everyone’s best buddy. Frankly, I don’t even believe in you.”
“No shit. I’m the one true Lord; I’d know if you actually followed me.”
“Well, I burned one a little bit ago, so, y’know, maybe, mixing that with drink is having an adverse effect on me.”
God laughed “Sorry, Howard, but your weed’s not that good.  Why don’t you believe in me? Never wonder how you got here?”
“I’m no expert but, surely, science has got that covered at least to an extent...and it’s not just an existential matter, anyway.”
Goldstein paused and thought for a second “Well, both my parents renounced their religious upbringing long before I was born, so I grew up in a secular environment, as much as my junior schools tried to convince me to think otherwise.”
“Do you never think that you might have  thought entirely differently if your formative years were spent in devotion to the idea of me, or any religious belief system, even?” asked God
“Yes, but indoctrination from birth tends to instil an almost inherent faith in people, which they are hardly even capable of questioning. To be honest, I just can’t get behind the idea of an omniscient, omnipresent deity  who is...y’know...do you not see any flaws in logic in that? It’s kind’a fairytale-ish.” said Howard
“Ah, but perhaps if you were born into a Religious family you’d see everything from an entirely different perspective. You’re a product of your environment. What sounds ridiculous to you is more than plausible to, well, a vast majority.”
“Typical Religious person, always evading the question in a debate.”
God chuckled “Look, we’ve got sidetracked. What do you expect when you walk up to a group of guests who are supposed to be your friends?”

Goldstein, who had been sidetracked by God’s sudden entrance, finished rolling, and began to pace the room.

“I don’t know. I guess I have an expectation that everybody is on the same wavelength as me, but not everybody has the same set of...values, ethics...I won’t say morals...as I do. Actually...I’ve been meaning to ask you, do you think Religion is necessary as a moral code?”
Again God, who seemed to be in good spirits, laughed heartily “Oh, no, no, no, absolutely not. Shit’s pretty self-explanatory. I mean...do not kill? Do not steal? Kind’a goes without saying, right?”
“Thank you!” Goldstein lent out the window and lit the spliff. He inhaled deeply and then carried on “Well, it’s just...I put on some Wu-Tang Clan back in the main room.”
“Yeah...”
“Yeah, well, I guess you’d know. You’re God, after all. After about twenty seconds, I was told that nobody enjoyed it, and they took it off. You know what they put on after that?”
“I do, but carry on.” said God
“Nickelback. Fucking Nickelback. Really the most atrocious, artistically worthless bullshit music I can immediately think of. I had to be talked out of leaving.”
“Yeah, that Rock Star song is pretty abominable. But, hey, everyone likes it. It makes ‘em happy. Hey, give that here” Goldstein handed his maker the spliff “What’s that Big Brother & the Holding Company album? The one with Piece of My Heart?”
“Cheap Thrills?”
“Yeah, Cheap Thrills. That just about sums it up. You can’t expect everybody to have the same elitist tastes as you. Even if, between you and me, I’m with you on this, you’ve just gotta accept that stuff like music isn’t as integral to the lives of most people, as it is to yours. Accept the disposable product. Whatever makes ‘em happy, y’know? Don’t get worked up about it. You can smirk condescendingly instead. And shit, find some fucking other stuff to talk about. Music, films, yeah, great, but most people just like listening to them and watching them, not listening to you recite the production credits. Get engaged with their lives. You make it awkward for yourself by more-or-less refusing to be friendly without irony.”

At this point Goldstein realised that, even if God was now lying on the bed with his eyes shut like a novice stoner, muttering about food, he was probably right. Goldstein finished off his joint because, waste not want not, and then he stirred God, and they headed into the party together, to pragmatically find some good conversation.

“Hey, you see that chick over there?” asked God “Reckon you could introduce us?”