Trash City 06

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It Must Be True…

Tidying up on a story from a previous issue; the Sunday Times, in their review of the year, mentioned the story about Cicciolina and the squashed dove. According to them, it took place in AFGHANISTAN and not Hungary, but since they described Ms. Staller as a “dancer” (euphemistic, to say the least), I’m taking their version with a pinch of salt! They did restore their credibility a little in a recent colour supplement, with “A Day in the Life of Ilona Staller”, which was superb. A few quotes from it here are essential :

“Very often I wake up in the clouds without nearly as much sleep as my young body needs [ she’s 38! ] and the only remedy is to plunge straight under an ice-cold shower. It’s good for my breasts… I want to build love parks all over the world. I’m hoping Mrs. Thatcher will want several… Catching people’s attention is easy – going past the Colosseum on a float, I just lifted up my blouse and showed the crowd my titties, then my skirt to keep their interest, and they all listened to what I had to say”

Thief of the Year award goes to the man who tried to rob a store in America while carrying two guns. The assistant pointed out that two guns were not really necessary and offered to buy one off the robber. Following some negotiation, a price of $300 was struck and the pistol handed over in exchange for the cash. The shop-keeper then offered to buy the OTHER gun for the same amount – after some agonising, the thief agreed, snatched the second lot of $300, threw the gun at the assistant and headed for the doors. The victim pressed the button that automatically locked these and refused to let the villain out until all the cash was returned. This the robber did, and he was freed, leaving the store with a net gain of two pistols.

Only in America. Indiana University doctors attributed a patient’s anaemia to his having swallowed 80 quarters and $1.32 in loose change. He believed it was necessary “to prevent a gun in his stomach from firing”. Also, David Burling, 19, was acquitted on a charge of manafacturing the drug ecstasy because it’s scientific name, methylene-dioxymethamphetamine, was misspelled in the state law.

Pennsylvania state is planning a law that will make ‘deviant’ records and tapes carry a sticker, labelled as follows : “WARNING: May carry explicit lyrics descriptive of or advocating one or more of the following: suicide, sodomy, incest, bestiality, sadomasochism, sexual activity in a violent context, murder, morbid violence, illegal use of drugs or alcohol. PARENTAL ADVISORY. Clearly no-one has considered this might ENCOURAGE people to buy the records…

Trash sport. Robert Vance, playing cricket for Wellington in the New Zealand equivalent of the County Championship, conceded a world record SEVENTY-SEVEN runs off one over. 69 of these went to Lee German of Canterbury, who was caught out off two of the over’s seventeen no-balls, hit 8 sixes and 5 fours and whose score went from 75 to 160 in two overs. The umpires lost track and stopped the over after only five legal balls had been bowled. The reason for this odd behavior was to try and tempt Canterbury to go for a win – in the end, however, the match was a draw.

So you think TC’s bad for printing gratuitous pictures of Nastassja. Recently, the “Daily Express” had a short article on Italian actor Marcello Mastroianni and his love life, accompanied by some pictures of him and his past lovers. Mastroianni’s pic was 10 square cm, Faye Dunaway and Catherine Deneuve each got 8 square cm but the pic of NK was 14.5 by 8, or a meaty 116 square cm. Not bad going, given the only mention of her was second place in a list of his mistresses!

From the Independent, via ‘Time Out’: ‘Swaziland is to deport a self-confessed Moroccan cannibal because he has been demanding the bodies of road accident victims for his meals. The authorities feel unable to satisfy the appetites of Hitler Sharin [ sic ], a self-style mercenary soldier, who has just spent six months in prison for the illegal possession of arms’. Not to mention a couple of legs and the odd internal organ, no doubt.

For once, most of the stories on the opposite page don’t really need any explanation from me. However, the “vibrator play’ one might do (I’m indebted to Glyn Williams from bringing this piece to my attention). To quote the article:

“Aussie soap fans have blasted a Prisoner Cell Block H play which includes refence to vibrators and uses language such as ‘vinegar tits’… Fan club organiser Roz Vescey said ‘We believe this would be offensive to many genuine fans who turn up to the show expecting it to be like the series'”

Vinegar tits! Gosh! Even speaking as someone whose knowledge of the female penal system is confined to ‘Reform School Girls’, I think it might be just about possible that you would hear such language behind bars. Mind you, Prisoner Cell Block H has never really been about reality to any extent!

PATIENT ATTACKS DENTIST WITH HIS OWN DRILL. “Easygoing Al Hartman writhed and squirmed for 90 minutes as a bumbling dentist nearly ripped his mouth to shreds. Then the peeved patient leaped from the chair – and turned the drill on the dumbo doc! ‘He tore my gums bloody just cleaning my teeth and when he started to drill, the drill kept slipping off and boring holes in my gums and cheeks… I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him down in the chair and started drilling away at his teeth. He started screaming his head off and I loved every minute of it. I know it was the wrong thing to do, but right then I just wanted to make the little twerp pay.'”

That’s what you get for having Steve Martin as your dentist.

Nightmares in a Damaged Brain: Nightmares 5, Sanity 2

The phone rang.

I leant back on the beach, swept up the nearest crab and moaned ‘Yeargh’ into it like a cellar door in need of liquid refreshment. A thin and insufferably cheerful voice chimed back “Your early morning call, Sir”. I asked for extra chilli on my kebab, replaced the crab and rubbed some more intoxicatingly aromatic oil into Nastassja’s thigh. Waves of fluorescent azure licked contentedly at the starfish shaded sand.

The crab rang again. “You told me to ring twice, Sir”, the voice piped cheerily. “Now why would I do a stupid thing like that?” I replied, instantly pleased with the logic. “I don’t know, Sir, but you were very insistent”. Mmmm. Sounded like me alright. I asked Nastassja to roll over so I could work the oil… “I am sorry, Sir” the creature twittered insincerely “but you know no house guests are permitted”. I told the crab to scuttle off somewhere moist or I’d pull it’s legs off, but it seemed to be attached to the beach by a length of coiled plastic flex…

Reality slid slowly sideways, capsised and sank, it’s iridescent colours and exotic smells vaporising in flame like a burning photograph, leaving me with a stiffness in the groin and a puzzled hotelier. I told him I’d be down for coffee. “I’ll make it strong, Sir” he intoned flatly. There were some days when it would be better to stay in bed. This was one of them, so I got up.

Fighting my way to the window with a hangover so big you could camp under it when it rains, I was greeted by Burton Latimer . The town has ostensibly been laid out by someone who longed to build Arndale Centres, but didn’t have the imagination. It smelt of casual slacks, Volvo estates and Sainsbury’s carrier bags.

The room was furnished with what appeared to be the result of a five minute frenzy in an MFI Closing Down Sale, and assembled by someone who didn’t know if he was going to live through the day. The colour scheme had evidently been chosen by someone who didn’t care either way. There had, I reckoned, better be a bloody good reason for my being here. _________________

Burton Latimer is very near to the Weetabix factory. Car drivers going from Northampton to Burton Latimer often get stuck behind it’s big yellow lorries. On their way home, they often get stuck behind Carlsberg lorries. Contrary to popular belief, Carlsberg is probably the best lager in Northampton. It’s an exciting place to live, Burton Latimer…

The hotelier’s expression came straight out of a Dario Argento flick. He was looking at a face worse than death, so I smiled back. I figured that his idea of living in the fast lane was probably the six items or less checkout at Sainsbury’s. With a voice like stormtroopers tap-dancing on a honeyed gravel drive, I ordered my coffee black as a moonless night and sweeter than a stolen kiss. He replied that it would be made by Dawn, which I hoped was a lady rather than a sunrise deadline. She approached my table like an extra in a Kylie Minogue promo, and I am not suggesting that Kylie is either particularly pretty or graceful.

The coffee leaked away through the table without wetting my knees, and a second cup performed the same trick. I toyed with the idea of keeping some in a sample bottle in case I ever needed a positive pregnancy test, but too much thinking like that would get you a long stay in a room with soft walls. I reckoned that I belonged here about as much as the Skin Two matchbook belonged in my pocket. The address on the flap was opulent, expansive and exquisite and that was just the handwriting, so I made a move.

The taxi driver decided I needed to see both town halls, so I decided to keep the tip. I expected someday to hear intelligent conversation from a cabbie, but I sure wasn’t dumb enough to hold my breath. The shop windows were blacked out, which was fine enough, but the nameboard was Japanese,which wasn’t. Knowing as much abiut the Bushido code as a geranium, I crossed the desert of cracked paving slabs, nostrils assailed with black bean sauce, and entered the oriental emporium.

The unscrupulous Oriental behind the counter smiled like someone who had a Magnum pointed at my balls, so I figured that my name wasn’t Robert Robinson. There was enough hardware in the place to make any gun collector/Mercenary magazine reader wet himself with delight, but none of it was projectile. It was like standing in the Shogun Assassin props room. “I have been expecting you, Detective Sahn”, he breathed, and unwrapped a shining shuriken from an oiled paper sheet as if it were made of ice and not hammered steel, never breaking eye contact like a gunfighter in a Sergio Leone movie.

“A woman”, he whispered.