mum was not a square, she bleached her hair & had massive knockers

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When I wasn’t conducting deviant sexual experiments with high-powered vacuum cleaners, the work with Benham’s usually involved servicing boiler rooms up in the West End. But the one job which stood out involved heading north into the wilds of Willesden. There was a Wall’s sausage factory up there, and I remember having to see them slaughtering the fucking pigs. These weird dudes with aprons covered in claret were doing the deed. The strange faces these guys had – they looked like lunatics. The pigs came in off a lorry and got shuffled into these little pens, then the geezer would put the big electric prong on them. Before there was time to see if they were dead or not, they’d get hooked up by their hooves and sent whizzing up this fucking conveyor belt with their back feet at the top and their heads hanging down. First they went through this furnace which would burn all the skin off, then they’d be washed clean with jets of water. The poor cunts didn’t stop on the conveyor belt till they were in a packet. I remember watching up to the point where the geezer with his big knife slit open the stomach and all the fucking claret came out the middle of it. That place was just a fucking hellhole and I’d never seen anything like it. Not even when Chelsea played Leeds.

"Sunday's the only day we have for a really long fuck."

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He was asked why he wished to join the bank. Christie was lost, could not think of his answer. One was shortly supplied for him: most young men joined the bank for the security, for the very liberal pension which amounted to two-thirds of whatever salary the employee was receiving at retiring age. And this retiring age itself was as an act of generosity sixty, and not sixty-five! Not only was Christie simple, he was young, too, a few weeks past his seventeenth birthday at the time of this interview. Christie was silent even at the information that he had only forty-three and not forty-eight years to wait before he was free ... Christie had expected to have to work hard, and to find the work both uncongenial and menial, at first. What he did not expect was the atmosphere in which he was expected to work, and which was created by his fellow employees or colleagues as they were in the habit of calling one another. This atmosphere was acrid with frustration, boredom and jealousy, black with acrimony, pettiness and bureaucracy.

smoky dance-halls, the meeting places of thieves, spivs and prostitutes.

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He got to know a blonde hostess with whom he fell in love. For days on end he was away from his room in Montmartre, his wife and his monkey. The strange new life he led with her had effects that were as enduring as they were beneficial. In the space of a few months, he acquired an elegant bearing, decided to dress in the approved manner. Soon, though, he was back in his little room in the Place Emile-Goudeau, back with his wife and monkey.  Those Montmartre hotel rooms! The foreigner who frequents Gay Paree sees only the blazing neon signs along the Rue Pigalle, the social round, money flowing as freely as champagne, the women who hang about street-corners, the dance-halls, the dancers. But like those of Marseille, or any other town, the Montmartre hotel rooms are small and square, their flowered or striped wallpaper torn in places. A yellow or red satin eiderdown covers the bed; net curtains hang drearily down each side of the window, through which more dust than light comes in. The faded covers are flecked with cigarette burns. The enormous cupboard holds all the tenant’s belongings and in a shady corner a screen masks off the washbasin.

"I don't want you to do your own thing, I want you to do MY thing!"

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I asked Jim [Kweskin] what his new act was like. Did he sermonize or what?
"We don't sermonize; but we don't always do what they think they want. I mean we demand that the audience get personally involved in what's happening, and a lot of times they just don't want to. We've been known to sit up on stage for hours and not do a thing. Sometimes you have to create an embarrassing or painful or angry situation just so that everybody's in the same place at the same time."
Wasn't this the sort of intimidation that people often associated with the Jesus freaks?
"Peace and love!" he said scornfully. "I mean, I walk down the street and I talk to some of the Jesus freaks or some of the peace and love people, you know? And they're dead. They're sound asleep. They feel absolutely nothing. All they do is spout out words. I mean, it's obvious we're not spouting out a bunch of words that somebody taught us how to say."

FATSO! Come in an git these. Brang me some summa sausage. Baby!

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Oh, I used ta play Suppas fur my sister. Last time you caught me in a drunk, I got over there an went ta drankin. Play a little while, drank some mow. An my sister’s house was at the top of a little old hill. After a while, I went outside. Git me a bit a fresh air an take a leak, you know. An my legs was sorta wobbly. An direckly, I stumbled an rolled all the way down that hill, into the ditch. An I found myself in that mud, water all on me. An couldn move. So them people back in the house was waitin on me. One said, “That boy been gone a long time. Lets git some music goin here.” A Mexican was in there said, “Well, I’ll run out in the dawk there an holla at im. See kin I find im.” He come on out off the poach: an I was down in the sank. Couldn do nothin but jest roll around down there. Finely, they fooled around an found me. Carried me up the hill ta my sister’s place. An set me down in the flow. Didn put me in no chair! “Git out the way, you old drunken bastud! He’s jest reelin an rockin an fallin down.” Talkin ta me. Guyin me. Cause I couldn do nothin fur myself. Jest had ta lay there, take it. I rememba everthang they done. An some of em I got even wit em after I got sober. Here they jest kickt me an walkt on me, they drug me an pusht, pulled me round on the flow. “That old nigga aint good fur nothin. Put im out the way! Roll that drunk bastud under the bed so we don’t trip over im!”

the Europeanization Movement of the Great Kingdom of Viet.

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"Everyone is so civilized nowadays! It's a damn shame! The streets used to be filled with depraved, uncouth men and women - people who'd spit and piss wherever they pleased, people who'd beat each other up in public. Remember the days when four people rode together on a single bicycle!? Remember when people used to curse each other in public and smack their neighbors around? Houses were filthy with toilet water; dogs ran wild in the streets. Bicycles without headlights were everywhere. Now everything has changed. Alas, the good old days of our parents are gone forever! No one even curses anyone's ancestors anymore! The old order has broken down completely! Kids today don't even know how to talk dirty!"

As a tractor driver, sex was always on my mind.

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Got to the theater and discovered I was on the same bill as H. Bomb Ferguson. H. Bomb was explosive, the extrovert of extroverts. His idol was Wynonie Harris. H. Bomb was loud and cocky, one of those guys who seemed to know it all. Even though H. Bomb was from Carolina, he’d been living in New York and acted so slick, he made me feel like a hick. I’d brought the six-piece chart on “Three O’clock Blues” by Bill Harvey. “Won’t work,” said Tiny Kennedy. “We got eighteen pieces. This is a big band. You need a big-band chart.” “Where do I get one?” I asked. “At the liquor store,” Tiny answered. “What does that mean?” “Buy some booze for the cats writing the arrangements,” Tiny advised. “Let the cats fix you up.” The cats fixed me up. For the price of a few bottles of Scotch, I got me a kickin’ arrangement of “Three O’clock Blues” that let me shine at the Howard Theater. H. Bomb, on the other hand, refused to give the guys anything, so they played in keys that gave him fits.

Let us follow them to their lairs, watch their ordinary daily pursuits.

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Among these heaven-inhabitants were the Shakers, and the foundress of this particular heaven was Ann Lee. Mrs. Lee had received the intimation, straight from heaven, that the outward manifestation of love between the sexes was at the root of this world's downfall; and, according to some rebels against this theory, matters had come to a pretty pass; since the choice lay between the downfall of the world, and the complete discontinuation of life on that planet. They preferred the downfall, they said - every time! Even Mr. Lee, who had at first been frightened by Mrs. Lee into respecting the results of this message from heaven, and who for some time followed her about hoping that she might receive counter-orders of some sort, in the end plumped for the downfall, and disappeared in the company of a female Shaker whom he had converted to his heresy.

they pleaded for tolerance, Boyd flipped a finger at everything

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Catholicism has the appeal it has for all who lack sexual gifts: it assures them that the thing they're not good at, sex, is wrong anyway. Soft cocked, hard hearted; broad-hipped, narrow-minded; cold assed, hot tempered ... The middle class are endlessly vulgar, with no redeeming obscenity. They represent themselves as above sex, but they are beneath it - too cold, too frightened, too ambitious, too conventional, too unattractive for sex. To this day they love lovely things. They are themselves lovely things, robots like the "straights," performing as programmed; they are the true undesirables, the undesiring …