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Waking up on Saturday morning with hours to kill before my guests arrived, I found myself contemplating how to fill the day before things kicked off. It kind of filled me with a sense of frustration and ennui, and as I lay on the bed, toying with my glistening erection, I related this train of thought to Octavia, supplementing it with a comment along the lines of "You know what - maybe that could be the plot of a novel. Someone ligging around before a party, thinking about stuff."
So, imagine how taken aback I was when Octavia informed me that there already was such a book, some chick-lit thing called Mrs Dalloway. She went and got it from the shelf to show me, and I tried reading it to kill time before my guests arrive. Sadly, at this point the post-modernometer started to sound its alarm, and combined with the relentless tedium of the novel, I tossed it to one side. Then I started to think - perhaps this book was due for an update.
So I cobbled together a plot for Thorn Dollaway about this dude in Oxford who, while waiting for his guests sits at his computer, wanks, plays on the X-Box, wanks, picks up the guitar and makes a quarter-hearted attempt to learn a breathtakingly easy song, wanks, then finally opens his doors to his guests before realising that he doesn't really want them there and would much rather they went away, so he could have a wank. All of this would be documented in brainmeltingly tedious detail, with a precise inner monologue documenting the every thought of my protaganist (for eg: "I sat at the table and looked at the wall, and thought 'wall.'").
Anyway. Rather than actually write the fucker, I thought "lol, wouldn't it be funny for TMO to swap out main characters from literary works and replace them with TMO posters, lol". As my threads are always such major successes, I was pretty confident this couldn't fail.
Imagine, for example, what American Zygote would be like, with Patrick Zygote for the lead character. Actually... probably more or less the same, but transposed from a luxury penthous in New York to a diseasey bed sit in Manchester, and rather than being driven by greed and the dehumanising power of money Patrick Zygote is just the way he is because he's a rapesick maniac who hates women. Oh and he gets caught at the end, because as he isn't rich, his crimes don't get swept under the carpet. So, maybe not a great example there, but there are other books, and other posters. If you are a thickie poster who can't read books, why not try doing the same for a film, for instance, or a play.
-------------------- Now that you've called me by name? Posts: 2007
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Someone said to me this morning, "It's Catch-22, whichever way you look at it." Which was a clever reworking of, "It's like deja vu all over again."
Except they weren't being clever, of course, just thick.
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Following a stretch inside, Dang Croker-Caine decides to get together a gang to pull off a cunning heist, which will revolve around some fiendishly clever planning. First off, as getaway vehicles he will use bicycles. Secondly, it will take place in Paris, not Italy - that will really throw people.
He assembles his intrepid crew of expert cyclists. Ringo has youth and enthusiasm on his side, despite his lack of actual cycling expertise. BoyRacer is a clever addition to the gang; he has plenty of cycling hours under his belt - except they've all been on an exercise bike. You begin to see just how much of a genius Dang is as his daring plan begins to take shape.
Of course, he needs backing. A Mr Bridger. This is where Jonesy comes in. And, er, does some clever stuff and says some funny lines sounding like Noel Coward.
But, yeah, lots of scenes of the three of them riding round on bikes up and down stairs, and in tunnels, and stuff. With some jaunty songs.
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Mad Nat Nathan Bleak roams the scorched wilderness of the post-apocalyptic earth being devastatingly sarcastic. Hey, nice leathers, they don't make you look gay, at all! And those feathers in your earlobe are quite a statement. I'm so terrified by your relentless machismo that I feel like just giving you all my petrol. Yeah. Pfft! And then roaring away in his Interceptor, laughing maniacally, to a headsplitting metal soundtrack.
There was music from my neighbour's flat all year round.
The fresh navy paint of his heavy front door was rendered a blur by the coming and going of men and girls, until it resembled the hazy wing of some giant bluebottle, buzzing and fussing to welcome flawless visitors into the self assured huddle. When the pubs closed and the chicken shops swallowed their prey, I watched his guests nibble more civilized fare – silhouetted through his voile drapes in winter, lighting his balcony in summer – their confident laughs and deliberate giggles broadcasting a melodic warning across the South London skies: "Stay away. You don't belong here."
Every Friday six crates of bottled Spanish lager would arrive in a van marked Acodo – every Monday those same bottles left his backdoor, drained but for dregs, in spotless green buckets marked Wandsworth Council, where they jostled for position among the Veuve Clicquot and the occasional empty, grinning bottle of Mexican tequila. Come morning, these reeking improvised cocktail shakers of pulped lime, sodden cigarettes and stale beer would be whisked away before they could offend, their stench utterly obliterated by the delicious scent of frying Covent Garden bacon and Porkinson's organic Bangers coming from the kitchen.
Throughout the weekend, deliveries would arrive with the irregularity of freight trains. A red Toyota Celica, its passenger door kinked by some unknown collision, would pull up outside. Its tubby driver - limping from some collision of his own, or perhaps due to an enormous cock and small underpants - would approach the house with a mobile phone attached to his ear. The bluebottle would hum and pitch him inside and a cheer would ring out. Five minutes later, Slim (for I later learned that was the delivery boy’s name) would quietly return to his vehicle and vanish into the night and the balcony too would briefly clear as the most beautiful nostrils in south London devoured Slim's wares behind closed doors.
By ten o'clock the sound system would arrive – no slight CD and blown tweeters affair but towering bass pins and woofers to be saddled by magical DJs with light shooting from their fingers and ridden like stallions. Style and atmosphere and cocaine and alcohol surfing the waves of music and crashing against the vast Victorian walls, drenching the assembled in the sheer delight of simply being allowed to be there.
The pulse of the music increases and the pills kick in and the hours take hands and circle each guest, revolving and smiling and mocking Time itself. The Dawn faintly taps at the window but is told to fuck off back to the sun until we're ready. We’re ready. The groups change more swiftly now, swelling with new arrivals, moving from huddle to huddle – we're ready, we're ready. It's 'us' and it's 'them'...tonight.
I believe that on the first night I went to Bandy's house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not invited — they went there. They got into minicabs at Clapham Common, which bore them out to Balham and somehow they ended up at Bandy's door. Once there they were introduced by somebody who knew Bandy, and after that they conducted themselves according to the rules of behavior associated with amusement parks. Sometimes they came and went without having met Bandy at all, came for the party with simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission.
I had been actually invited. An email with a signature of robin’s egg-blue fluttered into my inbox one Thursday morning. As soon as I opened it and exposed the invitation to my tiny flat, it felt out of place, caged and wrong. The honour would be entirely Bandy’s, it said, if I would attend his "little party" that night. He had seen my posts on the boards several times and intended to email me but a peculiar combination of international travel, good drugs and marathon sex sessions had prevented it. It was signed simply Bandy (Lol).
There was me, that's tarry, and my three droogs, harle, a_lady and Helen. And we viddie, while slocking the old pretty pretty white stuff at the LOL £$, some good old rumpy violence to be tap danced at the old mentalism tap-tap keys. Quick double time, we broke the stable door, mini-milked the fridge magnets and killed the locals faces. Ahhhh, Beethoven....
etc.
-------------------- If Chuck Norris is late, time better slow the fuck down Posts: 2740
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Hahaha. Helen? Perhaps you would have me make a picnic in her shiver box, hey Ballington? Lay my tongue egg in her nerve nest for you to foxtrot the pipe when it hatches into the Brrrrrrrraaaang! Bird, hmmm? I am a lady, not your muck dancing lick puppet.
Venturing illegally into California, Mexican couple Candido and América discover that life is far from hospitable in the 'land of opportunity'.
Whilst making his way back to their temporary shelter in the brush alongside a busy highway, with a bag full of scraps of food for his now-pregnant wife, Candido is struck by a fast-moving vehicle. Riled by the damage this caused to his brand new BMW, Samuel Delaney pulled over and began hunting for the animal or person that had collided with his valuable vehicle. They would fucking pay.
Eventually, Samuel spotted the man who'd idiotically walked in front of his car. Candido was lying in a bush. Leaves were stuck to his bloody face, a guttural gargle the only sound he could manage. He managed to raise his right hand a few centimetres from his mangled waist. Samuel, upon noticing the Mexican flag tattooed on the idiot's wrist, felt enraged. What the fuck was this sponging, illiterate tramp doing here? Damaging his property of all things?
Candido, noting the now-contorted face of the man who'd run him over, attempted to crawl back down the hill to where his wife was waiting, her stomach cramps worsening due to the starvation that the couple had been experiencing since their arrival here two days earlier. Samuel saw that the tramp was lucky enough to still be breathing, let alone make his cowardly escape, so he dashed back to the car and, from the boot, retrieved his Maschinen-Pistole 40. Chuckling and cackling, he crept back to the battered body of the Mexican tramp and shoved the barrel into the fucker's mouth, smashing several teeth in the process.
Back in their makeshift 'home', América heard the deafening sound of a gunshot. She attempted to get to her feet, but her legs were jellylike, leading to her staggering a few feet before crashing into the tiny collection of pots and pans that they had found lying nearby upon their fateful arrival. América heard somebody laughing behind further up the hill. Growing louder by the second. A branch snapped and the dark shadow of a man appeared, his eyes wide, his bright white teeth glimmering...
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I’ve decided to be more proactive in my hunt for a woman. My previous conquests of Pandora have not succumbed to much – whilst I have been lusting at her pert breasts, I’ve not managed any more than stroking her hair. I know she winces at me, but rather than her outbursts of protest, I really think she is begging me to go to “Second base” as the Americans call it. I am becoming more reluctant to pursue this prissy little madam, and considered giving her a good thrashing like she deserves. However decorum and dignity must remain – I shall instead take it out on my online minions this evening.
Tuesday
Today could not have started any worse. I’d arrived at Conservative HQ as normal around 9:30 all full of the joys of spring. I was wearing my pale grey suit, which I think makes me look like the guy out of Miami Vice, but Mummy says its “not befitting a future PM”. Seizing a quiet moment, I logged on to the internet and scanned the message boards – I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but its been so long now that it is impossible to break my cover – I’m in too deep, like one of those SAS heroes in the books that Daddy bought me. I know how disappointed he is I never followed him to Sandhurst, so I always read the books religiously, and I see his eyes twinkle when I mention the stories of the Chindits and similar. I am sure he won’t be so disappointed with me when I live at number 10 and demand we bolster the defence budgets and invade Iran!
I’d just posted under my alter-ego about a bypass protest when Tarquin burst in boasting of some sexual conquest at the YC Ball Saturday, when he noticed the pictures of the squat party I’d purloined – I closed the browser and blurted out it was for an undercover bust I was planning with my brother Nigel, but he did not seem convinced. That’ll cost me a bottle of Bolly at lunch for his silence I’ll wager.
Wednesday
I’ve resorted to some clever jiggery pokery to spoof my IP address when I’m in ‘my other world’ – lord knows what the admins would think to see the IP address of this exclusive residential area! I’ve upset no less than 6 young ladies – all of lower breeding no doubt – my ham-fisted grooming (all part of the act) has given them the willies (and not the sort I’d proffered! Boom Boom!) and they all appear angry, yet scared at the same time. This gave me a funny feeling in my naughty parts, and made my winky stand up like a Coldstreamer at the palace. I’ve made hard copies for some private reading when I am in bed this evening – There will be plenty of Kleenex needed later!
Thursday
My persistence of repetition in my alter ego appears to have upset some posters on one board. Many are now diagnosing me - This is wonderful! One even claims to be a Doctor no less, who also seems quite duped. I have to be careful now as with this level of excitement, with one slip I could blow it all. I compose myself, and begin a post informing everyone of a website called “Google” which I am sure no one has heard of. The fools are suckered in further!
To celebrate the attainment of his twenty-sixth year of age, Lord Tar of Milton, of whom much turpitude was widely suspected but little incontrovertibly known, spent the evening with acquaintances at Covent Garden's O'Neill's public house, a drinking den of the worst iniquity imaginable.
'Dudes!' exclaimed Lord Tar to his companions, easily the most obsequious crew of reprobates a fiend of Lord Tar's boundless egoism could ever hope to recruit. 'Dudes! Look! Over there! Who is that slut?'
Each acquaintance followed with his eyes the vector of Lord Tar's pointing finger, but despite a great deal of scrutiny none could truthfully claim familiarity with the ravishing new creature.
'Fucksake,' reproved Lord Tar, who, beneath the table, had quite instinctively referred a clawed hand to that lower region of the torso where the thighs cross swords. 'Find out, then. I must know who she is. She's to be my bitch by morning.'
Some beverages later the most odious of Lord Tar's companions, a Colonel Television -
Oh god, fuck this. Half an hour that's taken me. How the hell did de Sade manage to sustain this smartarse tone for fifty pages? I guess he had a fair bit of time on his hands, being in prison and everything. You'll just have to imagine the rest for yourselves. Ringo would probably have cornered Vogon Poetess in the toilets and tried to rape her, but she would have talked her way out of it by comparing herself to a car. Why steal and joyride a car and crash it into a wall, utterly totalling it, when you could save up to buy one, drive it with care, and enjoy driving it as many times as you like forevermore? And Ringo would have seen what she meant, and made her promise to go on a date with him, and let her go, and she would've gone straight to the police and had Ringo arrested. And then Ringo would have got Mikee to secure a pardon by bribing a policeman with sexual favours, and Ringo would have hunted Vogon down and made another attempt to violate her. But she would have smarttalked her way out of it again, and this time she would have hired a hitman to kill the sexual predator once and for all, and please tell me you're not still reading this shit. Just how bored are you today?
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Of course I know Tara Milton. That band ... Five Thirty? Total favourite of mine in 1992. I know it seems unlikely, me being eight years old at the time and all, but I was pretty precocious when it came to, you know, cultural appreciation. Google's blocked on this computer, by the way, so there's no way I could have just found out who the hell Tara Milton was, say, five minutes ago.
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Well, I liked it Fionnula. Especially "She's to be my bitch by morning". Although that probably won't make much difference.
-------------------- They give you a pen as fat as a modest cock and you're expected to dab it on the page, as though you were mopping the dregs of an afternoon Tommy. Posts: 1847
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Thanks both. I was going to write also that 'his hair, no less repulsed by him than every woman to whom he turned his attentions, had begun to flee his head at the temples and crown', but that would have been 1) somewhat nasty, and 2) that pathetic defence-mechanism thing some psychiatrist dude or other defined as 'projection'.
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I enjoyed that Fion, especially the "thighs/crossed swords" bit.
But please can you delete/amend the second word of your post.
-------------------- What I object to is the colour of some of these wheelie bins and where they are left, in some areas outside all week in the front garden. Posts: 4941
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I read some of de Sade's "Justine" the other day. It wasn't sexy, obviously, because you can't fucking understand what he's on about. But then, I am really ridiculously stupid these days. Or maybe just tired all the time.
-------------------- pudgy little saucepot Posts: 738
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I haven't read any of his longer stuff, but some of his stories are hilarious. I doubt they were ever intended to be, but they're so fantastically improbable it's hard to react any other way. This one in particular - which I'm going to spoil, because no one's going to read it - called Florville and Courval, is about this Christian woman whose life is like ... how shall I put it? ... Oedipus to the power of Romeo & Juliet. Stupendously tragic. Unwittingly, she fucks her long-lost brother, conceives his child, then fucks their child, then KILLS their child, then causes the execution of her own mother, then accidentally marries her dad, then fucks her dad, then conceives her dad's child. Then, when she realises all the sinful incestuous shit she's done over the last thirty years (and she works everything out within a period of about ten minutes) she stabs herself to death.
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