[...And ends over here! The Tenth Part of the Ten Thpart: Oh! Split my legs with a telepathic Pole. Boots form a secret society, writing and drawing are preserved in osprey jam, the goggles mislay a church official - crunchy priests! "Mummy! Mummy! I've raped a viking!" In which we reacquaint ourselves with The Hoons and learn the true meaning of "Nunatak" ...And ends over here! ...And ends over here! ...And ends over here! ]
Pathetic shit dribbles from the mouths of the Anderoids. Palaeontologists stand aghast in the autumnal midnight wailings. Dribble dribbles in hopeless Rotarian after-dinner speeches. Spit is spat at the innocent rubber Elasto-Banderleroo. The caged sheep moo in yeti glum-boots, iliadic trash. Waste-bins crowd around the dying swan and then feast in respectable light. Cupro-nickel hens dig for anthracite in dune-buggy storeens. It's that age-old riff that everyone who's no one (even when they're asleep) would ever dream of playing.
ALDMONKSTON ROCK
Oh! Aldmonkston Rock, of lofty stature, towering above the plain, what tales of wisdom and nobility thou couldest tell, if only thou knewest the patois of Wiltshire... In ages past, chieftains great and elders wise invok-ed thy vast trove of knowledge, yet seldom did they heed thy guidance... Folly of man! Oh! Folly of nature!
Great Romano-Saxon temple, oh granite jewel of Alfred, unfailingly thou gavest thy succour to the men of Wessex in their hours of direst need. Imperial thumb, thou who demandest fealty from vast tracts of surrounding countryside. Oh! Towering nunatak, visible clear from Aquae Sulis to Sarum and, in latter days, beacon to the wingéd craft of the air. Oh! Vast boulder, resplendant in thy igneous majesty, tirelessly lending thy rocky form to generations of weary ploughmen... Sanctuary to wild crows and at least nineteen different species of rook... Oh! Hub of Albion... Oh! Pebble of unfathomable beauty, in whose stony depths lie all truths. Great monolithic mound of significance... Aldmonkston Rock, cornerstone to five English shires... Wherefor should thee give way to a bypass?
ALL THE YOUNG HOONS
...For analysis, refer to a code generally unrealised beyond your clinical absurdities... Who put the 'anal' in 'analysis'? I am a skating rink with Piz Buin burned into my third eye. They are innocent decorations of Woolies' dogs on meathooks, they are well-fed and masters of abuse... corrugated iron wouldn't melt in their mouths. Take it or leave it, the reply comes before the interrogation. If I'm out, I won't be far away... make yourself at home, have a klern, enjoy "Aqualung"... and don't type on mah script (don't step on mah blue-suede ruse, uh huh!) So we go sniffing tigers until the sun goes down and, meanwhile, a late Hell's Angel slithers around the corner into a street-party trifle... oil and blancmange - a long mean note! Children with Pre-Raphaelite grease-guns, grinning at the amphibious Father Christmas, blancmanges in rabbit-shapes, breeding by the wet trestles and celebrated pumas.
Dames, booze and sweet potaters,
Broken bones and see-yer-laters,
Chicago ships and alloy-gaters,
Shining in the dark...
Moustache burning,
Tables dancing
F'Nyetapyen's Reel!
...And the sun goes down... rivers of red molten sun below our feet and as far as the blind can see, pungent klernsmoke and incense soak into our filthy bodies. The low sun turns the tigers into black maytrees, ewetrees, oaktrees, knowing cow-poo. Note: I know who's a wooden horse. Later on, this will be significent, with lorries and jam in a lemur's story. Our masks glowed like incinerators, the white lady swept over the low ground, her whacking great tits filled the bowl below. We take it to the extreme... a klernskin is two and three-quarter inches long, a trivial reminder of real manufactured time.
The sun fell, fast, Space-Time Bristol fashion... the green, wet grass faded to wet possibilities, trees blacked up and sometimes wandered... the stars appeared, more stars than you've had hot dinners.
The Geel Cunn Ice-Trip accepted klernsmoke from the Gatwick Loons... We had passed through the ewegrove on our new mission, brought on by the actions of Am Resin, a laughing hippy from a present future. Just one more klern for the road, j..j..just one more klern while the stars boil in galactic oil, while tigers ripple by conquered offerings, lulling like lungfish on an amonite heap, while Jenta the Exist Zardile Dirt-Muse recites nineteenth-century opium trips to an earthbound blues harmonica.
Looking through the bars, we saw the blue roof preparing for a monkey regatta and becoming the stage for escape, via dandelion eating. By the acid pen of Am Resin, we were wiped out and now, sixteen years later, our band re-existed, signed to Spiderband Inc., barefoot spivs of the good old space between the notes.
The Hoons are coming!
The Hoons are coming!
Biodegradable with noble profiles and hero's belts,
Unfrozen egos whooping like dolphins in mud,
Running like slurry in a fountain...
The Hoons are coming!
The Hoons are coming!
In crystalline Transits, selling baloons,
Eating stars in all-night cafes...
The Hoons! The Hoons!
The Hoons
Singing songs to blue frogs in flower hats,
Playing humane killers with their teeth...
Baying to the moon!
The Hoons!
...Luck, be an astrophysicist tonight, by the portrait of a golden ninny, whiskered in a recipe for a cold plastic night, or a tribe of bears a-breathing. The Geel Cunn Ice-Trip rolled a slender klern, as the first branebanes of morning oozed through the stagnant vortex. He was dressed from head to foot in Spiderband Inc. publicity literature. On becoming a man, Geel Cunn Ice-Trip wandered far from the Southern icicles, carrying nought but a cone of Agar Bathies in his noshbag. Described in none of the music papers as "a gutsy viscera-graunching lead existentialist", he was signed by the band on a three-million year contract, with the stipulation that he donated his skeleton to Big Beta Ridong's button collection.
Elta Manpume!
Elta Manpume!
Out through a black hole,
Choking on spume,
Elta Manpume!
Hoon... Hoon-Hoon-Hoon!
Big Beta Ridong was born in a horse-trough, covered by a heavy stone. He was reputed to have worn his dead uncle's underpants on the day that Atlantis vanished. His fatal fascination for shirt buttons led him to Guru Norris, a phony head-doctor, who preached enlightenment through carbon-monoxide poisoning. Disillusioned, he wandered... the tigers regaining his brain and nurturing his folk-atrocity singing voice. His encrusted flesh still displays terrifying carbolic wheals...
The morning filled out like milking time in Alderney. A rainbow of jagged telephones ran across the sky, slurruping from their greasy mouthpieces, chasing the Free Soup Jeep. The mad mouth-axeman turns you on, according to Paragraph Three of the unwritten law...
The Goose Enamel Kelt, ex-pathological specimen and failed diamond castle salesman, has written some of the strangest street conflicts you have ever seen. When the Goose Enamel Kelt strums a skin blemish on the Gob-Harp, the imagination implodes, branejuices spray down teenage spines, elaborate helmets judder on Martian explorers, wild-eyed accordionists dance a zig-zag phenomenon.
"My name! My name! My name!" bellowed the Goose Enamel Kelt.
A professor walked into a barn and filled his black hat with angel hair, an amusing thought passed up his nose, "Hold your tongues!"
He gave a furtive glance to his watch and chuckled, "Gisst Zoozoo Funpipe Kalahedrinil!"
...From another dimension, wrapped in cellophane... "GROLABSON, THEERD DEERD NER DEERD, FLANK SOSSPITOON, LORTHREBSON, SHOVEL HERD OOSEN..."
Jenta the Exist Zardile Dirt-Muse... lean, mean, a nuclear sunshine kiddie, relating to anything in a pinny, seeing truth in a jam dish, going dynamic in an ant sort of way... stepping blankly into the persona of Coma-Toes, a burnt-down starling without a cause. He discovered his potential as a Go-Go Poet on a flat-back truck to Sirrahn... his favourite food is Nutrition, his favourite colour is Mang Mang Screlt, his favourite girl's name is Coral Snake, his favourite illness is Colorado Gizzard Fever and his favourite item of clothing is Doreen's bobby-sox.
The Geel Cunn Ice-Trip tugged on the slender klern, his left hand caressed the sparkling E-string of his instrument, a thousand clowns flew like marrows on the snowy winds of Never.
The Hoons! The Hoons!
Flying like air-jelly,
Upside down
On a child's toy giraffe,
Meandering
In a box of dirty shoes.
In rubber gas-cape and horned rim glasses, Gib Yob Amocalug is a fanatical puppet designer. His spiritual needs, slaked only by the sound of loud trumpets, caused him to audition for the band. Grinning into a solid brass nightingale, Gib Yo Amocalug had a vision of eating his friends. On a dank twentieth-century, he undressed his favourite puppets and stuffed them headlong into his eyes... and then, with a klern between his teeth, he started an experiment in reincarnation, involving a jammy stain on a provincial highway, called Am-Resin. Meanwhile, back at...
Am-Resin ran away from work to join the circus. Since he was first sat on a giraffe by his Uncle Tom, he had wanted to be a comedy percussionist. "Uncle Tom," he said, "I have a penchant for big dark ladies."
Two leylines cross just below his right knee, his bitter laugh cuts through nine-inch steel and his terror-bop sex-a-phone playing herangues the frontal lobe. His favourite dance is The Scatomancy... Eroxi-Nelhibation in the middle of a hollow caust.
...A further ten years to be served behind bras... counted out in the back of nine buses, another blonde Sugden, just another Little Dolly Dacktree in a quagmire of elaborate statements... Street-vendor partridges, don't ban it! Don't ban it! Come with me to the Feast of Leginalia. On the scarlet rump of a feather architect, repair my quiff, Baby! Powder my insects!
The speed of sound...
The Hoons, earthquaking pink bongos,
Narking pop sarong rozzers,
Kreeling shady Unknimwits.
Tormenting Wrecked Roodabayos,
Gorg'ed Lang!
Hoons!
Vammy And The Intentions!
Narcissus And The Skull-Manglers!
Gorg'ed Orange!
Okwakwa Monkey's Foot!
King Deacon,
The Reticulations,
Barbed Needle And The Fusspots!
Astew Mum-In-Zane
And Big Beta Ridong
Oozed crazy...
Hot Coca-Cola tubes of Enkadeath
Open Vivaria of Dune Buggers,
Willing Millie And The Flightless Megadeath!
...Oh yes! And the Niagara Slug Chum! Oh yes! And the Niagara Slug Chum lying in the grey-barred sweat wagon, waiting to see the clean squares of a sunny day. Landing on the bird, I gasped. Moments later, it was early, not far from the tigers.
We were backing an all-girl choral unit called The Original English-Dutch Kangaroos. Am-Resin tore off his mask and inhaled his Sex-a-phone. The Goose Enamel Kelt bounced out of the mirror, into a tray of moons. Peering through the pink fog, he raised his gob-axe mouthwards... a trickling beat phased from cloud to cloud. The Original English-Dutch Kangaroos had failed to turn up, we were on our own, us against thirty-million suncrushed onlookers...
...But wait! The crowd are shouting in unison, "God save us from the black hole!"
The sex-a-phone wailed a clear sharp note and the rain fell from the stage... one DONG! and a raspberry on the nightingale, Big Beta Ridong strutted like like a mesmeric glovepuppet to the footlights and spat a bolus of half-chewed klernmix across his fireman's boot, the audience hurriedly lit cigarettes.
Three minutes of echoed feedback based on "Don't Step On My Dog's Mess, Guadalupan" and the crowd were warming to the charisma of shock... we were making it big in Monkeyland!
"I was a human being
In a previous incarnation,
But I prefer
Being the universe..."
...sang Big Beta, to a weird rhythm of guitars. (Chung Dillip! Chung Dillip! Chung Dillip! Dillip Chung! Cha-Cha Chung! Dillip! Dillip! Chung Chung Chung!)
"Lungfish know the secret,
Shining like cut-glass scarves
Through drains of swan's ink,
Breathing for the fun of it!
Old bone sun rides
Furniture milky coffees
Under the roads and warehouses.
Come rest awhile, Arachnid!
Cool your sleepy eyes,
Drain your breath of swan's ink,
Cool your sleepy eyes!
Phobees, I was a human, being human!"
"Taketh eet away, The Geel Cunn Ice-Trip!" (Chung Dillip! Chung Dillip!). Geel Cunn clawed insanely at the expression unit, as if all the balloons in hell were riding charcoal skulls at the stage. I heard someone in the audience split in half. I smashed a couple of chords over the public address system.
"Come on, you bastards!" I yelped, "Dance to the bleeding poetry!" Jenta threw a wine bottle at some obviously-stoned French girls.
"Phobees, I was a human, being human!
Being Hew-oo-man! Being Hee-yoo-oo-man!
Being no vile thing with lungfish for ears!
I prefer being the universe!
Wo-wo! Yay-yay! Shawup-a-pah!
Fwatoo-a-whoosh!
Some-wahn...
Some-wah-ha-han...
Some-whan...
Some-wahn spiked my heroin..."
Gib Yog crunched a tear-jerking Dong! on the nightingale and our first massacre was over. Sherbet flying saucers flew out over the crowd, to be smashed in a zillion cupped hands.
"More! More!" shouted Am-Resin, so we imploded on an instrumental line, nutty chords and Geel Cunn's shirt-eating trick - ringing a D-chord, taking a shirt from throat to rectum... Was that fish real? It was time to take the horses, to ride before the Art Squad, through the bendy strakes of time.
ESCAPE FROM THE ART SQUAD ...Through mangled bowels full of porridge, through vague interstices, centrally though marrows' eyes, along the stepping-stones of dropped thoughts, from here to PINK! The group jetted by foot, rushed with gentle screams, in nonchalent despair, in sarongs of ironed-out lightning, like pointed pugs... back to the hired rehearsal void, The Limbo Locarno.
The Squad were warped into velvet slug-pellet jam, but still they came, an un-ending stream of spiky prohibition, allowing nothing. We turned right at the future, but they got fresh turkeys at the staging post. Chomping on indignation sandwiches, they loomed in front of the entertainment monsters...
...But the Hoons passed on through, the Hoons were eventual, The Hoons were a wide-mark bicycle, the jam-spattered Hoons stood mingling inconspicuously, in a pocketful of pencils and the Art Squad saw them not...
"I would if I could, but I'm not going to!" said the Celibate Seal.
"The password is Lap-Bap-Lamp-Rap-Hambone, Black Pigmalion!" warned the Summer Saving.
We passed like an Autumn, we tickled clocks on the deck of an aircraft carrier, licked liquorice, crizzed chrysanthemums and spent our leisure time in shades, but the Art Squad saw us not...
The Art Squad passed by, on their motorized Other Side, reading newspapers with the cartoons torn out. As their black jeeps thundered on, towards the infinite wall of Blap Chloridium, the Hoons raised shattered heads and breathed the scented snuff of sinusitis. Reborn through golden tubing and grasping soft, unborn instruments, Geel Cunn Ice-Trip taught the E.U. to speak extended words. The gob-harp torture man was rearranging teeth to play the limp implement, Gib Yob Amocalug had to re-tame these hollow vessels of sound to pitch and temper... and the Skin Ballast Eel was their only fan and he was dead.
"Among the Ornold Corner Poppit Zob Kadooko,
Long-distance inflammation,
Give me Memphis tennis tea!
Give me emphasis lemon meal water,
Give me diet diarrhoea!"
...played Niagara Slug Chum, on his six-stringed sewage farm. It was a normal rehearsal, the walls flinched at the experience of noise. Ceiling and floor shook hands and went out to look for wolves, the chains fell from our eyes. The Goose Enamel Kelt had his list of songs on his axe, we found lyrics written on used toilet paper. Traffic lights dictated changes, we danced to the feet of burning tom-toms.
"Chho-choo Foo-foo Leemo Meebo Klute me Booboo, Poopersooban!" said the tonsil-tapping hipster fans among our million-monkey audience. They did not realise that the gig was over (until the time when the Squad would return, to play a record by The Papier Mache Ramblers at 748 RPM).
"The Squad!
Squad Squad Squad!
Squad Squad Squad!
Am-Resin?"
That. Sit for now. Shout Hoorah for The Team and especially thank Shelfy, Lamé and Snilt for the most part. Morse Hoon.
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