JESSICA...

At nine minutes before eleven P.M., I rang the bell at no ** Windermere Lodge, Hornsey Lane, Highgate. At five minutes past eleven, Jessica stepped into
view, her hips swinging in time with her breasts. She was a real looker. A beguiling 5ft 10in confection of honey-blonde hair, limpid blue eyes, baby-doll
face, snake hips, and the contemptuous posture of a woman who found herself consistently in demand. Extreme desirability had a lot to do with it. She could
get anyone she damn well pleased. Okay, we’re looking at a rock’n raver - an open vintage Ocelot jacket, a tiny black mini-skirt, the smallest of black lace see-through bustiers, 18in upper thigh circumference (above the thigh you’re on
your own), silk-stockings and, of course, four-and-a-half-inch fuck-me stilettos.

‘I was going to wear something revealing,’ she confided to me. ‘Those little see-through hot pants from Agent Provocateur, but how can I without
looking like a load of soft porn. I mean, I don’t want to seem like a pushover.’
'Little late in the day,' I thought.
Zinc lips, bright eyes, faux-tanned skin. I always thought looking the
height of seasonal glamour tended to be part of the retail deal. I couldn’t
picture her doing anything for sex if she had to wear plain clothes and no
lipstick, but was beginning to wonder what superbly outrageous homage to
tinsel-glamour I myself had paid. Thank heavens for beautiful women. ‘You don’t
have to be a pushover,’ I said. ‘You can be sexy and still have class.’

‘It’s impossible for me to be cool, stylish and fashionable, and not
look like every man’s favourite fantasy. Sometimes I feel like the biggest C in
town,’ she said, ‘rather like a West-End production, with everybody wanting a
part in it.’ She sighed, ‘so, you know, you get laid a lot.’ She recognized, she
explained, the role of the penis, but professed to be unsure whether male and
female libidos were not altogether mismatched. Whether or not was open to
question, she said expansively, milking the pregnant pause, ‘but for every man
you jerk off, there’s two dozen priming their barrels. Unless, of course, they
already have their dicks up each other’s ass.’
‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised,’ I said. I must confess, though, I was inclined to think that she’d
been putting it a little strongly.

‘Sometimes I wish they would put their
penises away and do something useful. I’m sick and tired of ending up with a
dick in my mouth every time I leave the house.’ She took out her compact and
looked into the mirror. ‘All men are potential rapists, you know.’

‘No kidding?’ I said, groping for an answer. ‘That’s a serious
allegation.’

‘But it’s the women who make them so. Let’s face it,’ she elaborated with a throatiness in her voice that made my lips tingle. ‘A woman’s vagina is an amalgam of chemistry and biology, of taste and flavour that deter and attract
simultaneously. Its various aromas, scents and biological reverberations are very cunning and entirely irresistible.’

I felt myself reddening. The phrase reeked of cunnilingus. ‘It motivates men more than anything else in the world,’ I said, somewhat flustered. ‘It appeals to suckers like mangos to flies.’ She threw me a disdainful
look. ‘Just think about it.’

‘Thinking about little else,’ I said, starting the engine.

(Jessica was no mere prostitute down on her luck. She was a child of
progress. This was a woman who might go down into dirt, but whoring for her was
an informed career choice. The toughest part of the blessed thing was that while
Jessica was getting tied up, spanked or sodomized indoors, I would be waiting
outside, sitting in my cab...)

THE CONTROLLER...

Crushed: “Ouch. I suppose one thinks of Taxi driver, immediately.”

Paul W. was the night-controller, possibly the most thankless and gruelling job in the entire driving business. A compulsive gambler, he was one of the toughest guys you’d ever hope to meet. He was also trying hard to reduce his life-span by smoking Capstan full strength at the rate of forty a night - a brand which I thought no longer even existed. Nor was it surprising in the circumstances. The types he had to deal with confounded every expectation. It was difficult to imagine a more polyphonous lot. Paul always rose to a crisis.

Genius is an ambivalent term, but it somehow approximated his ability to do justice to everyone. Here the happy accident of being an ex-market trader stood
him in good stead. He was a veritable switchboard, capable of instant calculations and astonishing feats of memory. He was also a brilliant talker with a gift for repartee and an extraordinary semantic ability. He would
communicate in every jargon, tongue or vernacular ever devised by man. Like so
many gregarians of his type, he thrived on pressure. There was an acute cerebral
intensity in his intellectual make-up. He was one of the most alert and
perceptive men I had ever met. As a controller he was remarkable. Not just
because of his microchip memory, but because he had infinite patience with his
drivers, such as Tutu, a quiet mathematical student from Delhi with brooding
looks and tragic eyes.

There was but one stipulation: Don’t screw up!

‘There are only two things you have to remember,’ Paul W. invariably
admonished his new recruits. ‘Never fall asleep behind the wheel, and always pay
your rent on time.’

No other references required.

‘You are now a fully licensed cab-driver. God help us all!’


(Paul Wyfield now runs a fruit & veg stall in Covent
Garden)

Dreamy

KYLIE...

Hush, sleep the everlasting sleep
Dream the everlasting dream
Take a kiss from my dark lips
And forever hold your peace, hush...

If I gave you my eyes
Would you give me your teeth
Or bite while you could not see?
Would you take my thoughts,
Spin them into your soul
Or blow them into a whisper?

You can’t deny your destiny,
Sleep my child, sleep,
Fall into my arms forever,
Follow me, hush, hush...

(Kylie - child prostitute)


It sounded almost as if she was reciting from the far end of an
interminable underpass. She was pleading, I knew, almost like I should do
something. But what could I say to this melancholy refugee from the
free-floating horrors of her own obsessed imagination. These were the classic
symptoms of drug-induced hallucination. And I had neither the skill nor the
inclination for abandoning myself to the fantasies of a susceptible and
over-imaginative child.

She was right, of course, on one score.

One day she simply wouldn't wake up, lacking the vitality that
energizes life. One day she would come face to face with reality. It was just a
matter of time. Life is consciousness, and like consciousness extinguishable. I
felt alert to a situation that seemed nevertheless unreal. Some psychic
dichotomies were irreconcilable. Here she was, neither woman nor child, neither
wicked nor innocent, perennially dodging the soporific affections of some
psychotic entity, spinning her soul into a web. Almost as if she no longer
belonged to herself, waking up was a struggle. A reluctant return from the magic
kingdom.

The ravings of a fourteen-year old? Certainly. But that doesn’t mean
that she didn’t have a point. At least fallen angels have some hope of
redemption. She had nowhere to turn but to drugs and dreams for her salvation.
Already, she was in freefall. I could almost see her hurtling to her death.

As she walked towards the mansion in the crisp morning air, she struck
me as the loneliest figure I had ever seen. I heard the crunch of her footsteps
on the gravel. A waif-like, insubstantial figure, apparently quite alone.

(From a true recollection, based on Kylie, a child prostitute -
fourteen years old. The poem is her own - the events are authentic).

Dreamy

ALASTAIR CAMPBELL - and may the Force be with you...

...so I left this link on Alastair's newly inaugurated blog, and promptly
ran into one Alina Palimaru, authorized moderator and young amant de coeur:

To Selena Dreamy:
First of all, your hyperlink does not work, so you may want to go back to
school for some computer workshops!
Eventually, I did find your blog page with your views about Alastair Campbell...much to my dismay! I know there are people who disagree with his political views, and other personal aspects of his life. We are all entitled to our opinions. Unfortunately, we are not entitled to our own facts!
Let me just copy a passage from your meaningless diatribe, to demonstrate
what a sick, depraved and pathetic little brain you have! Selena Dreamy:
"Alastair’s past history was an unbroken chain of disaster, his blunders ranging
from minor tactical gaffes to major strategic errors, to say nothing of his
psychotic breakdown, clinical depression anduncontrollable outbursts."
For your information, Alastair is a brilliant political communicator and
strategist, and his fanclub includes, among little people like myself, Bill
Clinton, Gen. Wesley Clark and many other prominent international figures. He
also happens to be the "architect" of one of the most spectacular political
comebacks in England's history. He may have made a few mistakes along the way,
who hasn't? He actually did assume responsibilty for some of them.
But your passage seems to imply that Alastair himself is entirely responsible for his
breakdown and depression. You should be ashamed of yourself! You are welcome to
visit this blog and submit constructive criticism. I always enjoy a healthy
policy debate. But if you intend to return with more unsubstantiated junk, just
to brag about how much venom you harbor, then I will only say that you and your
blog are a fraud!

Alina


And here, with due respect, is my rejoinder:


To Selena Dreamy:

"First of all, your hyperlink does not work, so you may want to go
back to school for some computer workshops!"

You're absolutely right. I am, without reservation, a hopeless plodder.
I also know that therapy - not schooling - is my only shot at technological
survival.

"Eventually, I did find your blog page with your views about
Alastair Campbell...much to my dismay! I know there are people who disagree with
his political views, and other personal aspects of his life. We are all entitled
to our opinions. Unfortunately, we are not entitled to our own
facts!"

I believe we are all agreed that it is better to be familiar with the
facts before proclaiming oneself informed. For the level of ignorance that was
being displayed in the catastrophe of Blair's foreign policy during Alastair
Campbell's years as director of communications and strategy, was extraordinary
by any measure. And indeed, to say that the wrong countries were invaded for the
wrong reasons, secularists confused with fundamentalists, and a clueless
intelligence community retailed progressively destabilizing information, would
merely be to report on facts. Not to mention an administration which was blinded
by political arrogance and ideological obstinacy and, apparently, unaware that it
was collaborating in the greatest geo-political disaster story of the past four
decades. As, in the event, a more specific charge would be that, under the
doctrine of collective responsibility, the entire UK government of the day may
have been guilty of war crimes.

"Let me just copy a passage from your meaningless diatribe, to
demonstrate what a sick, depraved and pathetic little brain you have!"

Bless your little heart, Alina, you must have misunderstood my demon - this
particular gift I own of plucking the strings you respond to in exactly the musical style I prefer. It just so happens that I’m quite happy and forbearing about descriptions of this kind. It’s one of my many failings as a blogger and my concurrent deterioration as a human being that I have no desire to pretend to something I am not. I've never been an ethical persona. Call it deplorable. Call it picking up traits from your mentor Alastair Campbell - mine being the Virgin Mary - it is all the same to me. Though who turns out to be the Devil and who is the Saint, rather depends on whose side you're on.

"For your information, Alastair is a brilliant political communicator
and strategist, and his fanclub includes, among little people like myself, Bill
Clinton, Gen. Wesley Clark and many other prominent international figures. He
also happens to be the "architect" of one of the most spectacular political
comebacks in England's history."

Ooops - I have my doubts about the divine properties of Bill Clinton,
to tell you the truth. Admittedly, I was originally an unsuccessful teenage
violinist in New York. But when, as associate Director of Research, I worked at
the Library of Congress, with a coveted pass to the White House Rose Garden, it
soon became clear to me that deception formed the basis of his entire presidency
- such as the granting of pardons, squelching an investigation, awarding a
contract, deferring a regulation or looking forward to yet another "appropriate
enquiry", to say nothing of his groundbreaking "I did not have sex with that
woman!" So don't bore me with this American rogue. As for "the most spectacular
political comeback" - it seems to me that you are a starry-eyed devotee
retailing information to fit pre-existing norms, whereas I represent the
wholesome scrutiny of the people. And Alastair can certainly be under no
illusion as to the nation's feelings with regard to himself.

“But your passage seems to imply that Alastair himself is entirely
responsible for his breakdown and depression. You should be ashamed of
yourself!”

But I am. I am deeply troubled by it - unlike Alastair and numerous
obsessed persons under the misapprehension that they have some sort of claim on
public sympathy. In fact I still wonder about his downward spiral into
alcoholism, and whether or not to acknowledge it as a complex affective
pathology. I went cold turkey on every depression I have ever had, self-induced
or otherwise. Perhaps Campbell saw things differently from his psychiatrists,
but, despite his colossal sense of victimhood, the man should never have been in
politics. It may not be my business, but at the end of the day, it's my ass.

"You are welcome to visit this blog and submit constructive criticism.
I always enjoy a healthy policy debate. But if you intend to return with more
unsubstantiated junk, just to brag about how much venom you harbor, then I will
only say that you and your blog are a fraud!"

I have few virtues, sweet Alina, one of them being that I am the only
blogger to have declared herself a "fraud." It's in my profile. At the same
time, of course, you're missing a fundamental distinction: A pseudonymous
persona is not the same as a fraudulent identity. Indeed, a maverick deception I
can suffer, but a political toady I have no time for.

Finally, may I say that you are adorably homely, formulaic, endearingly
predictable and plainly out of your depth. As for Alastair, I'm afraid I find a
strong disposition in myself not to think so well of him as you seem certain I
ought to. Indeed, I might even claim that his blog is a confused amalgam of
careless, futile, and, at times, blatantly disingenuous allegations, replete
with more political inaccuracies and psychological misconceptions than any other
blog I have come across in two years of reviewing them (with the exception, of
course, of my own!), but I will not! In fact, I beg you all to give a moment of your time to Alastair's blog, and to peruse it for yourself. You will not
find it hard to come up with your own conclusions.

And may the Force be with you...

Dreamy

WAS IST DAS....?

Can't work out the language. I guess it's either Finnish, or perhaps Hungarian. Any clues?

"Modern fiziğin Bu eğilim, elbette, tüm malzeme çözmek için elektromanyetik dalgalar bir evren. Eğer kulak zarı, eşdeğer bir titreşmesinde ses sıvı olarak kulak içinde oluşturulur. Bu, ilgili beyin söyler sahası, hacmi ve süresi veya elektromanyetik "sesin frekansı". Aynı şekilde, bir alıcı ile bir koku molekülünün Docks, sinyal geçecek için beyin's takas olan koklama ampul, kokuyor. Esasen, de elektromanyetik radyasyon tüm aralığı - gama ışınlarından, x-ışınları, ultra mor, görünür ışık, kızıl-ötesi, mikrodalgalar, radiowaves vb - ötesinde algılanabilir vizyon için retina's eşiği, görünen renkler ise, üzerinde her yönde spektrum sadece elektromanyetik frekansları farklı. Ne zaman ışık retina üzerine düştüğünde, kimyasal değişiklikler belirli teşvik oluşabilir ile insan beyin kendisi için içerik yorumlar elektrik faaliyetleri onun duyusal
deneyimi. Bu tonlar, sesleri, tonları, renkleri, blushes veya boyalar, ancak
beyinde duygulanımlar!"

xxx

OBAMA - AND THE WHITE MAN’S BURDEN

The White Man’s Burden?

That was the slogan, and how weird was that? To say nothing of the
imperial, hubristic, thankless sordidness of it. Meanwhile, the white man’s
humiliations mounted. The loss of the American Presidency was a more or less a
foregone conclusion - given McCain’s fractious relationship with his own party.
McCain the renegade was barely tolerated.

So, it all adds up to one of those stellar moments when the political
planets were in exactly the right alignment for a really bright supernova. It
was the vision of Obama that appealed, as much as the man. He sniffed the air
and scented victory. It was a summons rather than an election. Equivocation,
finally, was over for the Afro-American, as the country's fate was bound over,
inexorably, to the "Black" Man who suddenly felt that he had a promising future,
not just an intolerable past. But above all, this was a battle of the New Age
against the old, to suit an era in which the white man’s hegemony has arguably
run its course. This was the political solar plexus. Circumstances, rather than
ideology, had propelled the freshman senator into becoming the first black
president of the United States - and thus, the repository of their hopes.
Deliverance is at hand, the civil-rights movement has reached its apogee and the
continent’s great profiteers and speculators are seen to stagger as the world's
tectonic plates shift beneath them.

The countdown to the future has begun.

The temptation to play with the idea of Armageddon and the presently
perceived economic threat from the newly gravitating Third World races might be
sacrilegious. But even if you feel that global warming is for wimps, you have to
accept the scientific evidence that the planet reacts to all types of stress,
whether ecological, demographic, energetic or nutritional. And even without
invoking the much maligned sense of entitlement of the Caucasian races as a
remarkable feat of historical unscrupulousness - and their past history, after
all, is part of the indictment against them - it is nevertheless the case that
they were the true upholders of the surpassing human values, of progress and
respect for the “Higher Man” and his institutions of science and technology, the
product of enlightenment and its intellectual tradition, the purveyors of a
finely-tuned hereditary sense of inquiry and method, to say nothing of the
pursuit of knowledge that has the potential to uncover fundamental properties of
our future universe.

Obama offers an alternative which turns the decline of the white man's
mandate into an instrument of future hope. If not the coup de grace, it
may certainly be the turning point in the fortunes of the industrial nations.
Some compared it to Nelson Mandela’s ascent in South Africa where, meanwhile,
for the unconquerable Master Race, there is no prospect but evacuation. Nor
should this be construed in any pejorative sense, but nothing I know about those
up-and-coming races suggests that scientific altruism or the quest for knowledge
could ever have been a motivating factor in their quest for the social
recognition of a variety of essential human requirements, or indeed, for a
humane and equitable freedom.

God knows, how weary we are of squalor, poverty and deprivation, but
any notion that such up-and-coming masses are in any sense concerned about the
welfare of the world, or the planet, or the future, is laughable. A deadly
conflict between two competing giants is already delineated. As Asia’s power
grows, that of the West diminishes. Frankly, I have to say I'm torn on this one
and not sure where lies the future direction of man’s ascendancy. The scientific
evolution and the Conquest of Space is neither an affair for sedentary Caucasian
nations nor for the newly developing Third World races. The unwashed multitudes
of the world are inevitably too concerned with survival to give much thought to
“higher” aims.

Nor is this all: the question now arises whether 'the first of the
human race' will prove to be the last, the Nemeses and destroyers of the world,
or whether they will actually begin to take their own future more seriously in
hand? The 'white man' of today must bear his burden. It may be necessary for him
to surrender the very way of life that the precursors of our own day found so
congenial, the very planet, perhaps, from which he commenced his assault on the
Planets which the rest of mankind may be too improvident, indifferent, hostile
or hungry to participate in.

Even so, and this is not perhaps the place to expound Darwinian
evolution, but its operative formula that evolution not infrequently proceeds
through the elimination of 'specialized types' and the survival of the simpler
and more adaptable forms of life, is really a good summary of the irreconcilable
antagonism of the principles upon which it is based. Much would depend, of
course, on the nature of the decline. On whether for instance it is caused, in
the language of the evolutionists, by 'a new vigorous society overrunning a
senile one,' or through 'the total collapse of the more advanced technological
societies, and a reversal of human life to the primitive subsistence level.' No
doubt the two are related. But with the latter in mind, it is not perhaps
unreasonable to say that a condition of their pre-eminence is that 'the first of
the human race' - and technically at least this may have been applicable -
establish new claims to immortality or else, whatever their other claims, make
room for supercession.

Dreamy