“Dun, dun, dun…”
Maxwell Woodger Esq.
Monday, 23rd January 2006
Walking home from an uneventful evening, I stumbled across a sprawling mass of naked bodies humping and jumping to the chords of Deep Purple.
Ummm..?
I stopped and stood in the shadows to watch and make sure this wasn’t some sort of trap or mystical sacrifice. The heaving crowd was working itself into a trance as the Ritchie Blackmore doppelganger went to work on the very obvious melody of Smoke on the Water. A greasy man rubbed his naked belly fat against the sagging breasts of an aged groupie from yesteryear. It was a sick and depraved sight, but I decided to join in.
The reason why Deep Purple wrote the lyrics for Smoke on the Water was due to an event that took place in Switzerland: The band was on their way to record a record at the famous Montreux Casino studios, but as they grew near thick plumes of smoke wafted towards them from across the lake. Apparently Frank Zappa was performing at the Casino and had literally burnt the house down!
So what has this musical introduction got to do with the world today, eh?
Well, elsewhere there is a thick cloud of chemical smoke coating the water of foreign docks and bays. A mix of burnt tyres, tear gas and petrol bombs creates a fog that creeps towards the shores of safe citizens and weary diplomats. Needless to say, the Dockers are pissed. Problems began when the European Parliament introduced a new directive that would open up the continents maritime routes to more competition from abroad. An influx of interest and economic force from abroad would squash what remains of an already unstable business sector.
A man of my stature cannot condone violence, but these burly men of quayside will easily take up arms faster than a sliding butterfly knot (Yes- I know my lingo!) comes undone. You see, years of salty sea air, late night drinking bouts of rare rum and an unhealthy intake of Fisherman’s Friend can take it’s toll on the a person’s character.
The fabric of the Docker’s sociability is frayed, lest torn!
So, what now???
Hell those childish brutes need to get a quick lesson in world politics 101, that’s what! The era of Pugwash and Captain blue beard are gone. Jimmy Hoffa is dead, and the rumours of pederasty didn’t help the man either. No- Today you need to fight fire with fire. Hallelujah! Take on the sharp politicos with their own game: Diplomatic immunity, coffee breaks with Madame Tseng in Paris, and chauffeur driven saloons for all!
Ahh… The political elite might find that a hard pill to swallow.
But essentially there isn’t much you could do. The world is a social place with hierarchy and politics. Just play your role and the cogs can keep turning, right?
The group of frenzied funksters that I was rubbing shoulders with, as a pseudo- Deep Purple band played the anthems, were just a bunch of hair dressers. Nothing to do with loading bay heavies or criminally minded seamen… Just a gang of follicule flamers having fun on a Friday night. Incidentally the sounds of an ode to a burnt casino rolled over us and across the road into the river.
The sounds being carried away by a strong tide towards rougher seas. Perhaps a docker had heard the cries of my blubbery and misty eyed bretheren, and mistaken them for a call to arms- the rum and Fishermen’s Friend are a bad cocktail…
Wherever you are in this bitter world- You MUST fight for the right to party!
Thanks to Jose Lavezzi at www.bazarts.org for the use of the dick shot!
Digesting a lovely vegetarian curry and smoking a fruity hookah pipe, I watched the screen with glazed eyes. A pile of dirty dishes were strewn between the table, couch, desk and sink, and ash had slipped and crumbled onto the carpet. In this decadent yet resolved décor, not much could bother me except the taxman or a sudden drop in body lotion stock.
This was one too many late night shocks for my liking, plus Khadhafi’s military outfit was far too loud for my flatscreen pixels to deal with. The World was going to shit with people dressed like that in power! Surely he was an open target with camouflaged colours like that? Unless the Colonel spent all his free time at carnivals and Mardi Gras conventions..? Ummm…
However, any foreigner will let you know that an Englishman cannot hold his drink (with the obvious exception being Americans who down Proof piss by the litre!). Plus, being the great socialite he is, anything that might enhance the Englishman’s bear hug grip of friendship on a stranger, or push him to prove the Eurovision judges wrong with his odes and ballads of football rivalry, must be stopped!
Just the other day I was re-living that great scene from A Bronx Tale- you know, that film where DeNiro is trying to keep his son on the straight and narrow during the Mob/Race hate era of the 50’s…Yeah, so I’m sitting in the backseat with my New Era pulled low, black camoed down, eyes focusing on an uncertain future. My camarades are more relaxed and joking around me. One of them mock sings a verse from some hip-hop song about “Still not caring…” I don’t remember who the rapper is.
When I scan the screens and pick up the airwaves, witnessing the tear of social fabric in France somehow none of it surprises me. When I moved to France, the coffee and croissant charade was soon squashed and replaced by the stale baguette and odd flavoured milk. I didn’t run the Champs Elysées with a beret and string of onions like many a tourist, I walked the back alleys with an army of Lacoste shellsuits and stolen scooters. Despite their garish outfits (peaked hats, bright coloured tracksuits and dazzling white Stan Smiths), my co-hosts were ignored and avoided by the rest of French society.
Fighting words in a volatile situation usually ends in hostilities. The only problem here is that nobody’s listening. The kids don’t understand the political rhetoric and the politicians can’t get to grips with the back-slang. Add to that the fact that a lot of the estates are no-go areas for social services, and an immigrant’s son can’t take two steps out of his ghetto without being stopped and searched by the fuzz, and there is definite communication breakdown.
There was talk of curfews being installed across the land, and distant communities taking up the cause elsewhere… We didn’t care.
All I can remember was a Moroccan pimp in a polyester beige suit screaming, “Fuck! Yeah! You wanna dance baby? Fuck!!!” at the top of his lungs over the disco beat of ‘Young hearts run free’- the swan song of one-hit-wonder Candi Staton…
I broke the ice with my own version of current events: An American man was being charged with hate crimes and having his name added to the sex-offenders data base for urinating on a woman. Ha! Like an old 8 track slowed to a stop, my audience groaned and silence prevailed…
I turned down the offer, but I knew this man had the right stuff to go with expensive chocolates. Over each of our desserts we introduced ourselves. He was here to accompany a very lady whose husband could not make it. His loss… Apparently the Moroccan was a good friend of the husband and only standing in a service, sort of like a chaperon. I mentioned I worked with the youth, mostly skateboarders. His eyes lit up, slightly glazed from his stick, and he confessed:
The polyester pimp was quiet for a moment- perhaps the hashish smoke had blurred his train of thought… “He run away like a wild dok! His beautiful woman with the big boobies,” he made voluptuous round gestures with his hands, “She is with me now!”