Monday, 3 March 2014

part 1

[The first 'chapter' of "Anarchaeology", a sort of COLLECTIVE PROSE PROJECT from the pages of "The Gridler" website (circa 2003, although some of the material dates back to as far as the early 1970s). It features concentrated exercises in SILLY WORD ABSORPTION from Shelfy, Goldlamé, Janet, Snilt et al, but was glued together into a big organic collage of poemprose by yours Mintilly. It was going to be a book, but we never got around to it. It may help to explain how we came to be the way we are. More to come when I feel like it.]

This is Prose Concrete, un montage grand des serpents afreuses (An enormous montage of scary snakes), a huge glutinous anthology of STUFF rescued from the cupboard of that ilk, even some of this bit. Are you with me? As I type this stuff, I realise that much of it benefits from being read aloud... I'll repeat that: RED ALLOWED! The originators of the raw material will realise that this "compilation" strays from, indeed abandons altogether, any intended chronological sequence, historically speaking... but Hey! This is FREEFORM!... And it contains genuine recordings of Venusian gibbons! So stop complaining at the back! Everything written by anyone ever is in this book, just not in the original context. As Homer Simpson would have it, just because I don't care doesn't mean I don't understand. I really must anthologise for my colleagues and, it has to be said, over the years I've learned a lot from giraffes. Special thanks to the editors of THE HOONS FAN CLUB INFO BULLETIN for the top secret historical background information.

"Goodnight, will phone next week - and thanks to The Penguin for the use of the blue nun - fear and loathing to Janet when you see him..." Insert picture of Gordon Fish, or a close acquaintance, here. THIS ONE GOES OUT TO THE ONE-EYED LEFTBY HIND.


This volume of poetry, songs, plays and silly word absorbtion is for you to enjoy or hate, it doesn't really matter. Really, this introduction is written for the benefit of alien monsters who will be taking over this planet in the near future... you see, WE are, in fact, alien monsters and if you read and understand our ways, you will become alien monsters as well.

As you know, the earth stopped spinning in 1968 and many brains were jarred. By this time, you probably think that the Cult's brains were put in jars, but you'd be very wrong. Each member of the Cult uses a clean cup containing Harpic and heavy water (ratio 8:1), every night, to flush out all this "(Back) Into The '70s" rubbish.

To be a Gosport (or East Cosham) Cultist/pervert, your outlook on life must be naive, but with the essence of the decadent '90s. If you throw a party, tell your friends to come dressed as alligators, then you greet them at the door on party night dressed as an echidna and ask them why they look so ridiculous. That's the way the Cult brain works. If you do a spot of Cult "trick walking" and people start making comments about your "stupidity", don't be a baby and get embarrassed. If someone looks on you as some sort of manic twit and suggests to you that they are somehow brighter or FAR-OUTer, agree with them wholeheartedly... perhaps they will say, "I don't like to be seen with people who say MURIEL DIMENT into a sink."... just keep calm and say things like "Greeno" or "Cane", or some other equally baffling comment.

Try to avoid the "them and us" syndrome. Normaliens and aliens must live together harmoniously. At times, it is difficult to tell the difference between us (especially these days), but a difference WILL be noticed, if someone tells a joke. An alien Cultist will laugh at most of the unfunny parts of the story and probably won't "get" the actual joke.

We have our own language - you can't expect alien monsters to go around talking the Quoon's English all the time.

Words are a very important part of the Cultists' outlook on life. The alien language, Gilzean, was developed because of the need to gain the maximum enjoyment from the verbal universe. The normalien will have trouble understanding this. But say the words "Initiation Regalia"... say them over and over again... they're superb! Why should a marble be called a marble? We call them "Ancient Animals"... you will learn about Gilzeanerisms later (as soon as I've found the relevant documents to include in this book).

As teenagers, we were banned from saying "CRANE" and "OIL" at the Gibbering Toad's house - that's verbal prejudice! - and "Crane" is Gilzean for "Thank You". The Gibbering Toad, by the way, is a very dedicated singer, poet and musician, best known for his rather strong natural odours.

The songs of Johnson's Gridling Band are, to some people, offensive. We don't care... just don't play "Pick Your Nose And Eat It" or "Bile In My Vomit" near your parents. All the songs have an innocence that normaliens won't understand... why should he? How can you laugh when your own emu's moulting?

The Cult has its own motorcycle gang called The Dukes. The eloquent Destructo is the greatest of the Dukes (and is also the tone-deaf soloist of THE BLEEG SISTERS). All Dukes are called Rocky and we can be very stroppy... stroppy in a different way to the accepted gang style. "Do you want a fight?" doesn't MEAN "Do you want a fight?", it's just that the word "fight" is amazing to say! A Duke will say "Let's beat up some baby squirrels!" or "Rip your eyes out for a shilling!" or "Can I disembowel you?" only because it sounds nice. Hurting people is silly.

By now, you will be bored with this introduction, but never mind... all aliens and normaliens should be given the chance to explain themselves. Even woodlice are important to you and me, so don't tread on them.

We're still like schoolkids... still flippers-in-the-street style. This Cult denies anyone the chance to hero-worship anyone else... it might make the Cultist himself feel like a hero, I suppose... Damn! Now I have to start thinking up titles for things... if I don't want to type anymore, I don't have to, you know...


Okay, I can see we're hot to trot and fries to go, cue the intro tape! (choose from one of the following: Charles Ives' The Unanswered Question played on kazoos or the near-legendary version of Also Sprach Zarathustra rendered with gusto by The Portsmouth Sinfonia. Then again, something from The Residents' Commercial Album would be nice, Susan.)

Moonwalker arrived and caught us out, merely another passenger on the eight-fifteen. I wanted to write an autobiography but I can't drive. I can't write either, at least not in the Biblical sense.

Can't write? Join the Free Association. Like Joyce, make your own rules of grammar, rules of thumb, thumb through the rules, thumbs rule okay. Joyce sure could write, he just had trouble with the typing. I think.

Oh James Joyce Jimmy Joyce Oh Jimmy Joyce and the Vagabonds probably of the entire western world Oh Yes she sighed Ulysses's grunt.

Or William Burroughs, beatnik and travel writer, Punk-to-Asian, that's the ticket. How about Cohen and Lennon and Dylan, all those Rock Capitals? I think I should mention, at this point, that my very favourite picture-disc is "Rain, Steam & Speed" by Big Joe Turner... (pause for a Gold-Lame-style "think about it")... Hey! A poem!


Teach me oh literati, teach me how to flick wasps from around my genitals without getting my hands stung... Eek Eek Hummings, he didn't play by the book. My conscience is a matter between me and the box I keep my crayons in. Enclosed is your free home trial copy of THE MINT REPLY. No other reply looks or sounds like it. Do not be fooled by its appearance. There is FUN afoot, just ask "White" Carla Vurkaz.

"Drugged-up iguana drinks are freeeee...." Perpendicularly-Challenged Anthony And The Imperials just went metric. Gamma steaks: Mu Tau dressed as Lamda, Punk-To-Asian: Thebes T'Boys, The Bee Sty Boys, The Best "E" Boys, The Bee's Teaboys, Obese Teaboys, Umberto Eco and The Bunnymen. Punk-to-Asian: See Me Colon Ick Ick Irrigation. I've forgotten all that stuff that came to me on the bus, but about this time of the year and/or millennium, we await the arrival of the Anti-Claus. Hanukah, Roshash Hana, ink-blot tests. Plastic TV licence plates hanging from the door, take my whole life, with its pyramids and arches. What I'd like to know is, who did kill variety? The Spies Of Life?

The artist in his squallor
His beans he does swall-er
And listens to Fats Waller
While ironing his collar
He bought for a dollar
In Marks & Spencer's in Portsmouth....

[Scene... A tall, black-suited and generally-smart man has the door opened to him by an everyday housewife-type person...]
"Good morning. Mrs. Perkins?"
"Yes, that's right."
"How's your husband, Mervyn?"
"Oh, he's okay, he's at work at the moment..."
"...And your lovely children, Simoniz and Bournville?"
"Simoniz has had measles, but he's better now... and Bournville's run away to join the Navy at Faslane, but she's only seven of course, so I doubt they'll take her - they don't take female cabin-boys on submarines, do they?"
"Ho ho ho! I shouldn't think so, Mrs. Perkins!... And how's Zippo the canary and Roxanne, your lovely goldfish?"
"They're both fine, they're expecting twins in... oh... what's the gestation period for canaries?"
"About the same as a bullfinch, I expect, about twenty-one days... As is the guarantee on one of our new Hi-Definition Televisions, would you like one? Any colour you like as long as it's Hi-Definition!"
"Hmm, sounds nice, does it come with a normal three-pin plug?"
"Yes, and the screen's enormous - imagine the penguin pool at London Zoo with Dallas in it. If you'd like to sign this Extended Consumer Credit Form, we'll use the money to develop the basic concept into a life-size cardboard mock-up and let you come and look at it. It's an eleven-twenty-five line system, not like your present six-two-five line steam TV..."
"Is that why the screen's bigger...?"
[Cut to "The Fish In The Forest" scenario. Deep in the forest, to the sound of Mint's fishy music, swim the sylvain eel and the elm turbot.]

Supercilious Samoans
Javanese janitors jiving
I've seen them all when scubatty diving
In full-face fish make-up
'Mongst coral forests and subaquatic remains
Of Atlantean sheds
Samoan dancers never move their heads
Norwegian Noahs seek Samoans twain
Pacific nor Atlantic nor mere lake, or water on the brain
Nor effigies of Eden Kane
Nor nothing negative, just sea
I think the answer lies
Full fathom five!
Not in Samoan seas where Javanese janitors jive
On moss Moorean mountains, where yacht-bears live.
Evolution is a funny thing
Hence the Bus-Bird and the Chip-Shop Quail
The Tin Poltroon and Car Boot Sale
(Perhaps that should have been the Car Boot Whale!)
But I am losing my step, like some badly-lubricated snail.

Galloping! Galloping!
The horsey-girl trots
On yonder green,
Her chestnut mare
Contrasts magnificently
With the umbrellas
Of the liverwurst stands
And soft-drink vendors.

I hear there is a shrew that lives on lick'rish Blackjacks
I heard it through the grapefruit
That grows on long-abandoned bottles of car wax.
Antarctic birds with Java knees
Skip back and forth eradicating ice
With tinker spoons and eradicating cream
Feed on turnips, swede, turnip and bream
X over E-Zee = The equation of Steam
Modifications flood through his brain like Cheltenham salts
As thoughts collect, ideas spark like lightning bolts
And fall to the sky, with soft thuds in the dark
And small children hide beneath the bedclothes
Like the subterranean equivelent of three-toed slothes
For I am a shoveller duck with a whisk attachment
Fricassee of dace, it's a downright disgrace
If you have to send fish, why not dispatch tench?
Newport Pagnell, some pieces of cloth and a bench.
What ducks are actually trying to say is "Aquatic".
Do they say it Slavic or Greek in the Adriatic?
Metaphorically squeaking, Kalhoun's in the attic.
Mumbling Jack Unitroba got the key
But not the right one, between you and me.
My other car is a Brent Goose
And then I was bitten by a swordfish.


Well I'm feeling great (Sex date sex date) And I'm wearing soup (Yeh soup woh soup) And high-heeled blinkers (Yeh soup woh soup) I've got myself a sex date With a really juicy bint. If I wear my soup skin jacket She won't know that I'm skint. Marjorie works at the data bank And says she thinks I'm harmless But we'll see, once I've had a drink Tonight down at the Young Farmers. I've got my soup skin jacket And cheese and onion hat And a funfair tail from a fun-fur rat. I'm the man they call "Mr. Jenkinson", Sexy, proud and fat. Gonna boogie, get loose Really put us through our paces In my set-yoghurt shoes With the oxtail laces. Gonna take her to the cinema To see a decent movie And then we'll have a bag of chips And she'll think I'm groovy. See these gloves? Genuine Victoria sponge mix For that formal occasion or for washing-up in Or at the wheel of me Volvo With lasagne upholstery. I love my darling And she loves me, I think her name Is Marjory. When it gets to be real late I'll ask my dame for a sex date And she will say "Alright Mr. Jenkinson!" And I'll reply "Thanks mate!".  My life's been hard, It's been a bit of a slog Eating Primula cheese From a hollow log. Oh no! I've been betrayed, Where's my marmalade? Herringbone coat Dogtooth tweed Shinpads made of mustard seed. I'm a food dood, I'm a food dood! Mr. Jenkinson! Hey! what price creamed rice? I'm as cool as a kelvinator, A real chiller-diller on the go And in your handbag for later We've got a black forest gateau. Eat my hat! Yeh, drink my clothes And I'll sit back and pick my nose. I only love you because your name is Marge. Let's ride a cholesteroller-coaster And play some sex games in the toaster. Gonna feed like flamingos. Get your head upside down, that's how it goes And suck the little fishes in, Inhaling strongly through your nose. I wanna bite down baby Bite down on a biped-burger And if I can't eat you An orang-outan will do. I'm the big cheese Yeh the prince of nugget, A post-war mousse In a soup-skin jacket. I feel ravenous - all big and black and feathery. I wanna use your shirt for toothpaste And fill my head with sox. I'm a fairisle drake With a cricket box, Stop me and fry one.


Live from Tooting Odeon tonight, we are proud to present the fifty-third annual international formation newt wrestling and cabinet minister impersonating championships - IN BUTTER!! And later tonight we'll be talking to this year's Miss Toffee Popcorn. (She's not relly a newt but she happens to know several prominent members of the selection committee). Celebrity members of this year's selection committee include: Cyril Smith's tailor; Cyril Smith's tailor's dummy; Olivia Newt & John; The auntie of the cousin of the person that sewed the shorts together of this year's two League Cup Final teams (also not a newt, but the aforementioned person's mother). With special guest, Sir Isaac Newt, on tonight's show live! The butter is low in cholesterol and has not had questions asked about it in any parliament outside the antipodes.


The Archbishop Of Canterbury Lookalike Competitition attracted the usual large number of sheepish-looking competitors. Flowerdump Jenkininininininfod O'Clovis peered down at the old grape building (because it wasn't there), causing acute "gradation" trouble. Stamensional Rictofabfabgear numbered twenty-seven from our sponsor, Cardthredgeemson McAnimal. Eurology swept a loganberry up one side of the Eiffel Tower, because he was working under the instructions of a Kentish meem tamer, so that the word "Flopstawnormal" became redundant... Lumogaz Interstellar Eighteen Pewsintereasonability...

Monkey... now there's a moment of instrumentation! Bermondsey Deutsch?

Josephine is my 1957 Chevrolet
Resprayed pale purple
With flames of red
Edged with yellow.

She's got a chrome tiger
Pop-rivetted to the rear bumper
Which we call a fender
When we pretend to be 1957 Americans.

You can't drive her
She's a mean old Chevy!
If I had a choice
Between driving my girl
Or my Chevrolet
I'd choose my car.

Oh give me a home
Full of Chevrolet chrome
Where the gleam of my hubcaps won't fade
And I'll sleep in the trunk
Like a naugahyde monk
At the head of a long motorcade.

Juggling with alphabets, just 'cause they sign you in at the door, don't mean you get a spot. I've been standing here fifty years, when I came here I was hot. Change the stage, feel (w)reckless, weak and restless, adore the posters, buy the discs, feel free you've got a full-colour hero to take your risks. Alternatively, seek the almost-legendary Jewish anteater of Panga-Lin. Got all these people! Got all this hair! Got all this love! Guess I don't care! Adoring the images of tight leather pants, all squared up in the crowd that's some radical stance...

Mogal thorp left luggage beans
Harmot Lorson's gantry
Tibrest be Orlem Horlicks toast
Tognorn Hartley shorty
Snugwort bread and brandy
Sponge for leg and me.

Ticking log of horn'ed thorns
Port Forgal Lucas Hartry
Peat farm tum pindle tudal fanling largely
Lindle gravy Jimmy
White yer eggs on Tuesday
Hardfoot beagles for tea.

Smell the odour green porn tin
Fangs harn gontin bluely
Halfords be for Yes! When wet in Tongsby
Zargo Luna's handbook
Food and Prundles laundry
Six feet four and Monday.

Singing log of horn'ed thorns
Port Forgal Lucas Hartry
Peat farm tum pindle tudal fanling largely
Lindle gravy Jimmy
White yer eggs on Tuesday
Hardfoot beagles for tea.

An air-conditioned tree? You guys are really snobs! We use the pump as a form of degrading release. Tear ducks, status cow, montage hoola minks, remarkable in its bowl-shape, colour and rank "phoob" odour. If you are not satisfied with this incarnation, please return it washed in the clear wrapper provided, Thank You.

I sell fishes for freedom,
I taunt timid reason.
I sell fishes for freedom,
I wear split-screen gloves.
I dance on an iceberg,
For I am, you see... BUTTER!

Oog-doog-spoodle-oog like your mummy used to grow water-peppermints. Tell Laura I like her. The opaque dent, weasel voices in the night. Classic exponent of the modern glance, hat bent like a snake, dog held tightly by the plumage, eyes in a duck squint, Oh Noreen! Oh Noreen!

Noreen oh Noreen, Noreen! Oh Noreen, Noreen, Noreen! Dubrovnik and ginger eczema pellet legs consequential dancing, the extreme nostril. Mommy! The weenies got Arthur! Milkbottle or xylophone, station master, station master! The Rotting Dean (aka Deacon Posing) is here to see you, M'lud, the Sleeping Princess and the Head Louse. Groundhog die-x errees matchstick spatula pettigrewsome scatting spree, Mr.John Dulwich Shed, okay, Meter-Beak, rooftop housing plan, air marinas.

To be continued... Thanks to Shelfy, Snilt, Goldlamé, Janet and anyone else who recognises their words.

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