Suggested Audio Candy
Hazel O’Connor “Decadent Days”
It has been a number of moons since I reunited with an old friend, a canny fellow who operates under a guise: The Lecherous Bandit. All was going swimmingly and I was beginning to find my feet once more in a life which had felt borrowed for the previous two months. I had been operating on auto-pilot, lurching from one day to the next, with no real inkling as to where it would ultimately lead. And then there was he.
An unassuming fellow, around my height and mass index, Bandit also shares another common bond with me. He’s utterly ridiculous, borderline genius but as mad as a tanked-up Hatter. I made the terminal error of suggesting a chat and soon wished I hadn’t. Everything had just started to make a little sense, I woke up each morning feeling as though a little more of me had been returned and the loitering vultures around me had been replaced by tuneful jaybirds.
Within ten minutes of conversation I was seeing only emus, in pink polka dot leg warmers no less. The sturdy walls I had constructed around me started to crumble, bleak Autumn vistas were replaced with lurid polystyrene palaces, and I began to pander for jelly and peanut butter bagels on a bed of otter-wing salad. It then dawned on me that he had once again breached my defenses and was nestled in around my cerebral cortex, vomiting madness like an unhinged house fly, and proceeding to trample it in with his cloven hooves.
Then it all came flooding back. Tea parties with fruit bats using Mama Scuzz’s finest crockery, forgotten afternoons down by the hay-bails playing round robin mirrored battleships with the old man who lived down the lane. The chap in question was over 100 years old and still in his teens, Cyril his name was. Or Cyril Florence Burksworth to use his maiden name. He was the subject of mass speculation around these parts and had apparently been seen down at the docks biting the heads off insecure giraffes and giving Chinese burns to badgers with blatant disregard for their families and personal money-lenders.
Bastard sank every last one of my Battleships and then had the audacity to challenge me to a round of Whack-a-Mole, double or nothing. I recall feeling smug as I had twice been county champion at The Mole Games back in ’62 and my record of 47 moles was still unchallenged to the day. I excepted his invitation and briskly stripped down to one sock as I prepared to grab that rubber mallet one last time.
I thrashed him 37-12 and performed an Irish jig around him to denote my superiority. “Calm down petal. Take a look around you” was his rejoinder. I humored him and glanced at the cheering crowd, all moles, every last one. I had been stitched up, the cheers were actually war cries as they cried out “He’s a vole… GET HIM LADS!” I wasn’t aware until that point that voles were sworn enemies and prohibited from any kind of illicit gambling.
I grabbed my mackerel and scarpered as fast as my stumpy legs could carry me, straight into an abandoned bunker back in vole jurisdiction. For weeks I didn’t emerge from my chamber and for months after I ordered my groceries online for fear of retribution. Damn moles and their impeccable memories, they’ll never let me forget. My tally of 37 concussed critters had earned a grand price for my head.
I stopped trusting anybody, apart from my Ferret Nauls who kept vigil while I slept. Months turned into years…years transformed into days and eventually my mind learned how to block the whole sorry affair out. I found love the following Spring with the most delightful Vole in the hole Verna McIlroy-MacGinty. We settled down and had two children named Norris. I’d never been happier.
All the while I was tortured by my burning secret; my relationship with Verna was very open and loving and I hated holding anything back. I was resistant as, the night of my ordeal, I had been cornered by Rae Dawn Chong and forced to enter into a tryst of sorts. In exchange for me never breathing word of this to another soul she granted me my freedom. I made a pact that night and swore to take it with me to the grave.
Love can make us all do the silliest things and one afternoon, after a round of Croquet down at the local Tea Rooms we came home, put the Norrises to bed and snuggled up for some quiet time. It can be increasingly arduous finding time for one another when your schedules are so tightly packed but this was an opportunity neither of us were going to let pass.
I showered in Goose fat especially for the big seduction and fashioned my hair into a skinhead to really knock her off-balance. My plan was to sweep her off her feet and sing her our song – Jingo by Jellybean. As I padded downstairs, licking every one of my lips in lustful expectation, I glanced over to see my bride.
She had never looked more resplendent than she did that night. Her long alban mane did the American Smooth around her delicate neck line, each strand sending kisses to my retinas. She had picked out our other song – the theme tune from Cagney & Lacey and was clad only in a crimson bodice and pair of scratch and sniff tartan Wellington boots. Verna knew only too well that this drove me gaga.
I peeled off my last remaining sock and slid underneath our crimson throw-over, snuggling against her tepid pelt. After around seven minutes of light necking, we got down to beeswax. The sex was wild, like a teacup caught in the rapids we swirled around, light-headed and making all manner of preposterous faces.
Truth Hurts: Be Wary of Cum Faces
There were grunts there were groans
There were quivers and moans
There were fluid transactions
Much jumping of bones
Slid it in then back out
Made her grimace and pout
Would have bent the slag over
But she suffers from gout
Upon painting each panel
Of this glorious mammal
We played Chinese Patience
Compared tooth enamel
Those moments we shared
All those secrets we bared
I told her the one truth
My lips had ensnared
She looked disappointed
A little disjointed
Her eyes turned deep red
And her toes became pointed
“Your actions were wrong
You sang your sweet song
No longer your Verna
I’m now Rae Dawn Chong”
I’d broken my vow
Taken my last bow
My wonderful family
Were moles to me now
I knew I had sinned
Thus I ran like the wind
My rage for The Bandit
Was now underpinned
So, you see, he may come across a cordial fellow and may even bake you a flan, but he’s not to be trifled with. If he invited himself over for Thursday Croissants by the bird-table, then make your excuses and thank him for his time. You may have just evaded a fate worse than dog breath. Ignore my advice, fail to heed my warnings and he will find a way inside, sapping you of any of your aptitude for backgammon and leaving you sobbing into a rolled-up new testament bible like a lovelorn elf.
If you’re reading this Bandit, then have at you! I present a challenge to you now, with all these fine Grueheads baring witness. A game of lawn tennis is my proposal, only with an exclusive twist. As opposed to rackets, balls and all that is superfluous, we shall use sticks of celery and kola kubes. Let’s settle this El Lecheroso Bandito, mole to mole. What have you got to say about that, bucko?
Enter The Bandit
It was an auspicious year. Residents of Miami awoke and wandered the white blanketed streets, mystified at the strange drifting flakes cascading from the grey skies. For the only time in history, Miami was goddamn freezing. An omen, perhaps. For the world was changing, especially for one young woman who found herself up the duff.
My parents coupled and copulated at exactly the same time as the Rings of Uranus were discovered. Coincidence? I think not. My embryonic being began to flourish, and though my memory is hazy, I do recollect listening to the debut album of The Clash interspersed with frequent bursts of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rumors’ which formed the soundtrack to my fetus stage. On a staple diet of Star Wars and Smokey & the Bandit, I began to develop neurons and basic human understanding. A love of thrifty Jawas, oversized mustaches and ‘Making Of’ outtakes in end credits, quickly added to my growing tastes.
I was now capable of physical movement and, as this was the year of the true birth of Disco, it was very quickly clear to the doctors on the Ultra-scan screen that I was mightily adept at cavorting, doing the Tango Hustle and wearing lurid polyester. Studio 54 opened in New York and despite my protestations the frowning Doctors ignored my requests for immediate travel and dancing escapades. Too many sequins, apparently. “I only want to adjust Elton John’s wig” I lied. They didn’t believe me.
I coughed amid the amniotic fluids and spluttered in awe when the very first Apple computer went on sale, and decided there and then that I must have it and that, for the rest of my life, I would spend amassing huge debts and spending way over the top for products that other companies make just as well. ‘Apple is the future’ I declared, and for some reason decided not to invest in shares (This was before my Patrick Bateman 80’s stockbroker, greed is good, let’s hack people to pieces with chainsaws stage).
I was now a fetus/baby hybrid, a wee blob of purple quivering flesh the size of a wrinkled walnut floating resolute in a foul, syrupy fluid and change was beckoning me like ZZ Top’s thumbs. My lungs were already developing and for this I was grateful, as I planned to spend the next 35 years killing them with Rothmans.
Life was pointing onwards and upwards. The old ways were dying. Pelé retired and Kanye was born. In the same way as the railway effectively killed the Wild West, transformation was happening, both inside my hosts cavernous body and outside where, shortly after Elvis sat on his toilet, farted, ate some burgers, then left the building permanently, a new sound emerged and it was really bloody angry.
The Sex Pistols burst onto my scene and, as they kicked and sneered, so did I. My Mother was soon confined permanently to a hospital bed as her blood pressure rose and constipation kicked in and the concerned physicians held their chins and hmm’ed a lot as her health swiftly deteriorated. Punk had arrived, and like my dear Mom, it was taking no shit.
Fortunately at the eight month stage I stopped stomping, biting and spitting in imaginary people’s faces and instead began to strut. Saturday Night Fever was upon us. Ah, the Bee Gees. I quickly discovered a talent for beard growing and high-pitched whining, attributes that have blossomed with age. Why stop at a beard? I thought, and lo and behold, I’m now covered entirely in a fine downy hair. Like A.L.F. minus the quiff, I too have hair in places you didn’t even realize was possible to have hair in. Happy days.
And so, yes, it was snowing in Miami. Unfortunate if you are dressed in swimming trunks and slowly freezing sun cream, but not as unfortunate as Hamida Djandoubi who not only had just the one leg, but also, as my unveiling grew close, become the last person to be guillotined in France (surprising, huh?).
I now had an identity. After eight and a half months of gastric turbulence, eating bicycle tires with marshmallow fluff and elaborate scheming, my parents had finally given me a name. ‘Military All-Terrain Triceratops Equipped During Wildly Ambitious Richard Dreyfuss Snatching’. A little long-winded perhaps, so I settled for the acronym – M.A.T.T.E.D.W.A.R.D.S.
An auspicious year. A year of importance. A time of great change. An eighteen-letter word was needed at this point. ‘Transmogrification!’ I shrieked in a high-pitched whine as my mother prepared herself upon on the operating table and spread her legs wide for the surgeon. Come to think of it, that’s strange considering I was a Cesarean Section. At any rate, the year was 1977. And it was the year that I finally escaped the womb. Oh, and then became an artist. I trust this has been enlightening Keeper. Now what do you say we forget about the lawn tennis showdown and bring it in for a hug?
… or alternatively, how about an affectionate review of the sequel to Boogie Nights which doesn’t actually exist?
Also known as In Colagirl We Thrust
Number of Views: None
Release Date: April 1, 1979
Country of Origin: Switzerland
Sub Genre: Bollywood Erotica/Family
Running Time: 9 minutes
Budget: Twelve hand jobs
Box Office: Fifteen tit wanks
Director: Marlee Matlin
Cast: Pam Ferris as Birk Fiddler, Burgess Meredith as Slack Corner, Jessica Tandy as Bamber Shaves, Brian Dennehy as Mead Scoffwild, Don Ameche as Duck Grope, Heather McCartney as Cola Girl, OJ Simpson as Brittle Will, Robert Davi as Grotty K, Carol Kane as Necky Garnett, Clive Owen as Droid Gondola, Mickey Rooney as Bod Shafter, A.L.F. as Bahad Klaxon, Shelley Long as Burt Schlongstrong and introducing Forest Whitaker as Boris PP Maringuez/Benny From the Bronx
Suggested Audio Candy:
Misty Swing “Jazz Flute”
The year is sometime in the late seventies. Tensions run high in the discotheques as the Swiss Army Brogue has just peaked in popularity and everybody wants a pair. This guy is white, creamy magnolia to be precise; more pallid than Roger Rabbit’s bleached ass-carpet and more vibrant than the Brothers Gibb’s pearly dentures. But he’s stacked like a meaty sheesh, with disco balls which glimmer like a crystallized cum-broach.
One day, as Birk Fiddler is slaving away in his dead-end job he is spotted by a big swinging cock in the Adult Entertainment industry, sporting a mustache which resembles a gymnastic caterpillar and eyes as small as shrunken sultanas. This cat’s name is Slack Corner and he suggests to excitable Birk that his schlong is mighty long and would look good inside Colagirl, or the tip at least. Fiddler slides it free like a mauve fire-hose and Slack’s peepers widen like a thoroughbred’s ass trench after an evening on the glucose.
We then cut to Mead Scoffwild, who spots Birk’s girthy salute at a pool party held at none other than the condo of Brittle Will, a bullet waiting to happen but also one of the finest cinematographers north of the fish tank directly south of Mead’s position. They are introduced and a romance blossoms…Mead is happy being Kneel and Birk of course just has to be Bob. This arouses Grotty K, a sexually confused Mormon with a twizzler like a flaccid leech resting on two ripened cherry tomatoes. He attempts to act as spotter but blows his load like an excitable cannon inside his own nylon nut hammock.
Crimson cougar Bamber Shaves takes Birk under her bingo wing and offers him some stale bread and three curious olives…Des, Mohammed and Dr Gleason III. She spikes them with washing detergent and his whites become even whiter. Marlee Matlin proves again that she can get the best from her cast and this is her first Directorial outing since Children of a Lesser Womb bagged her Best Monologue at the Vespers last leap year.
Of all the players it is OJ whom floats to the top like a body in a river. He plays Brittle Will with great conviction and shows glimpses of being the next Louis Gossett Jr if he plays his hand well. Clive Owen breathes warmth and vitality into the character of Droid Gondola, while Jessica Tandy’s Bamber Shaves spends over half the film wearing only ear muffs. She’s aged well but phones in her performance after her rousing turn in Shafting Daisy’s Paddock with Derek Griffiths.
Boogie Nights II never really matches its predecessor in terms of original concept but the moment when Fiddler, Scoffwild and Shafter enter into a suspect trading card swapshop and it all goes awry is tenser than an Amish ass-clench. The soundtrack consists of a cocktail of seventies Jive including such classic dance hall stomp-biscuits as Bungle Beaver by Milli Vanilli, Mama Told you not to Cum by Bill Withers and Climie Fisher and the glorious Fooled Around and Fell in Sideways by Godley & Cream.
I urge you to seek out Boogie Nights II as it is the best of a disappointing summer roster. Denis Leary’s ChafeBalls performed poorly at the Box Office while the new vehicle by Woody Allen entitled Ostriches in Vienna flopped hard despite enlisting the talents of Midge Ure, Whoopi Goldberg, Marc Singer, Wilford Brimley, Sally Kellerman and Tom Arnold. It has zing, a little ping, nine and a half chicken wings on a string and is over before the bulimic goose sings.
Pilfering linen since the beginning,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Stealing your clothes since 1985,
The Lecherous Bandit
aka El Lecheroso Bandito
‘Making Of’ Outtakes
Playing air guitar with my umbilical cord to Led Zeppelin.
Embroiled in a car chase in my Pontiac Trans-Am, hunted by Jackie Gleason as I journey along the Fallopian Tube.
Watching Charlie’s Angels with the Placenta.
Decorating the Uterus with posters of Farrah Fawcett.
Complimenting the Placenta on its similarity to Farrah Fawcett.
Serenading the Placenta Farrah Fawcett with Barry Manilow’s ‘Looks Like We Made It’.
Cuddling up with the Placenta Farrah Fawcett.
Nibbling on the Placenta Farrah Fawcett playfully.
Smoking a cigarette together with the Placenta Farrah Fawcett.
Proposing to the Placenta Farrah Fawcett.
Skiing in Switzerland with the Placenta Farrah Fawcett.
Turning the thermostat up when the Placenta Farrah Fawcett complains of feeling cold.
The Placenta Farrah Fawcett frowning when it looks at its lovingly wrapped Ironing Board-shaped
Arguing with the Placenta Farrah Fawcett over its outrageous flirting with other babies.
Ripping down posters of Farrah Fawcett after she leaves Charlie’s Angels.
Asking the Placenta whether it knows it has an uncanny likeness to Jane Fonda.
Puts arm around Placenta Jane Fonda.