Monday, May 01, 2006
BANK HOLIDAY BLOODBATH!
It was just another Bank Holiday Monday in Surrey! Faruk Ahmed was speeding through Redhill on his Lambretta. The Muslim Mod had decided to treat his bird to a day in the countryside and to blow the South London car fumes out of his parka with some good, honest fresh air!
Suddenly - his doris, Julie, spotted a gang of Hell's Angels bearing down on her boyfriend's moped! Faruk laughed to himself. No bearded hippie slob was going to scare off this Catford scooter boy - he'd had enough of that from the mullahs who'd made his childhood a misery. He'd had his Lambretta customised recently, now was a perfect opportunity to check out its additional functions!
"Let's see how these rockers fare against a bit of old-fashioned firepower!" Faruk smirked, as a cluster of heat-seeking missiles exploded from the sides of his back wheels. The beautiful blue morning sky flipped to a black and red sulphuric cloud of bloody death as the lethal weapons made contact with the bikers' fuel tanks, blowing the Hawkwind fans into next fucking Xmas! "Mod violence! Mod rule!" Faruk yelled triumphantly, as the Quadropheniasoundtrack began to blare in his head.
***************************
The duo decided to park up for a snog in the grass. They had plenty of time to get to Lingfield for the horse racing. After they'd sucked each others' tonsils bandy, Faruk cracked open a can of Stella and played with his handbag house-digging girlfriend's hair.
"Oi! I thought Muslims weren't allowed to drink!" she scolded him.
"There's a lot of things we're not allowed to do" he winked, trying to shove his hand down the back of her skirt, before she batted him away!
"Look," he reasoned. "All I care about is Mod. I'm sick of fucking trendy wankers on TV talking about what person I'm meant to be. Give me a couple of albums by The Jam and The Jolt, and a good scooter rally, and I'm hap - are you listening to me?"
"Oh my God!" Julie screamed. "Look, greasers! Hundreds of them!"
A squadron of Angels perched at the top of the field, revving their Kawasakis! (NOTE - THEY COULDN'T AFFORD HARLEYS, DON'T HAVE A GO AT ME) Faruk, sprung into action. He gripped the handlebars of his scooter, causing two mini-machine guns to pop out over the headlamps, spraying the bikers with bullets. After a few minutes, the grease lay dead, and an eerie silence gripped the field.
"Right, we might as well get going," Faruk said.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Julie screamed hysterically. "Look, they're getting up again!"
"They must be zombies," Faruk regretfully surmised. "Quick, jump on the back, we'll just have to try and shake them!"
****************************
MEANWHILE, IN A NEARBY FIELD - an anarchist dark ambient festival was taking place! Revellers sat cross-legged, soaking up the sun and listening to a man in a jester's hat, DJing Portion Control and Lustmord records!
To India Sloane-Belsize, this was utopia itself. The young poetess and animal activist had always fantasised about dropping out of mainstream society and discovering herself at a non-profit festival. And here she was, after 20 years of hellish family holidays in the South of France, finally talking to her hero, the legendary Jerry Baudelaire!
Baudelaire was considered a 'shaman' on the alternative festival scene. He'd first come to prominence in the '70s, as outspoken leader of the anarcho-punk band Drab, who'd been so subversive, they'd distributed their records by hand in various tube stations. 30 years on, and Baudelaire was walking around starkers, save for a pair of clogs - fashioned from stale wholemeal bread!
India blushed as the guru approached her. "Come with me, my delightful creature", the grey-haired hippie whispered in her shell. "I want to take you into the woods, to show you...a true wonder of nature!"
She followed him, holding hands, excited by the prospect of being allowed to glimpse the most intimate secrets of the Goddess. Baudelaire was legendary for supposedly being able to project the contents of his LSD-ravaged brainstalks onto other people. This would be an experience that no 76k a year job in airline management could ever offer her!
However, her curiosity turned to terror as Baudelaire, still gripping her hand, squatted down over a clump of shrubs and squeezed out a turd! "Don't look away!" he yelled. "This is the wonder of nature! The return of organic matter to the soil from where all life springs!" India fought the urge to spew as the hippie from hell wiped his arse on a dock leaf and held the smeared plant-part under her nose. The fact he now had a raging hard-on wasn't helping either.
Suddenly - a mighty roar came from the stage area! Baudelaire sprinted back, leaving his young protege free to scarper and hitch a ride back to Hampstead. The crowd's enjoyment of the Psykik Warriors Ov Gaia track had been ruined by the sight and sound of Faruk's scooter tearing towards them!
"Boo!" shouted a juggler in a Charles Manson T-shirt.
"Nazi scum, off our fields!" a pregnant woman with pink dreads and her tits out howled.
"Quick, brain that fuckin' ethnic!" Baudelaire ordered. However, the dark ambienteers were too slow. Faruk managed to steer past them, while the rotating blades spinning from his hubcaps severed the feet of anyone mad enough to come too close. Zipping through a gate, Faruk evaded the mob and got back onto the main road.
"OK, chill out," David Tibet announced over the microphone, as Current 93 ran through their soundcheck. But it was the last thing he'd ever say - as a thousand re-animated zombie Hell's Angels suddenly ploughed through the field, turning the main stage into a blazing inferno - of DEATH!
************************************
Faruk slowed down and stopped off at a cafe'. Inside, he ordered a bacon sarnie, while Julie opted for egg and chips. After 16 years of denial, he was now making up for lost time on the pork front. He'd never read anywhere that Mods couldn't eat whatever they sodding liked, whenever they sodding wanted. He couldn't imagine The Chords turning down a sausage bap.
Julie checked out the jukebox while Faruk lit up a fag.
"Any Purple Hearts on the juke?" he asked
"Er...no", she replied, quickly flipping past the Purple Hearts - The Hits album. Instead she found a Hed Kandi compilation, and stuck on some Deep Dish and Tall Paul.
Suddenly - three Young Conservatives entered the cafe'! They were talking loudly about David Cameron's chances of election.
"Three teas, and scones!" the leader, a youth wearing a suit and a pound of hairgel, barked at the OAP behind the counter.
"And no sugar in mine!" warned his companion, who was wearing chinos, boating shoes, a jumper tied around his neck and a "HANG GEORGE GALLOWAY" badge, the size of a paper plate
"Hurry up, you old fool!" the third, a bloated thug in a Dire Straits T-shirt, growled as he sized up to the elderly proprietor.
The Tories sat down, and started chatting. Faruk tried to ignore them. He'd already wasted enough time outracing the bikers, and his planned day at the nags hung in tatters. Julie sat back down as the OAP shuffled over with their plates of food.
"Those Londoners deserved those bombs!" Tory B shouted. "Facking city scum, telling farmers they're not allowed to hunt, it serves them right!"
"I don't know who I hate more", Tory A grunted, "Londoners or those bloody Muslims. Both trying to extinguish our way of life! I hope they kill each other."
"Yeah, religious nutjobs, sticking their women in ninja costumes", Tory C agreed. "Still, just as well - they're ugly as murder!"
"Unlike that bit of totty, over there," whispered Tory B, pointing at Julie. "Bet you £100 I can get her away from that charity case she's sat with and ask her out for an ale tonight!"
"You're on!" the two other twats spat.
Tory B strode over to the table, and stood in such a way his arse was inches from Faruk's face. He thought he'd impress Julie with his powers of seduction, by taking a chip from her plate and using it to pierce the yolk of her egg, before raising it to her lips.
But - he didn't get that far! Faruk lunged forward with his fork, stabbing it through the Conservative's paw, and pinning his hand to the plate. The Tory wept in pain as a fountain of red blood and yellow yolk erupted from between his knuckles. Faruk grabbed a bottle of brown sauce and smashed it off the table, prompting the other Tories to race for the door, farting in fear.
The OAP was on the blower. "Yes officer, come qu-quickly! An immigrant has just walked into my cafe' and assaulted a white youth! He has a motorbike! Quick, before he ge-gets away!"
"I'm from Catford, you old cunt!" Faruk yelled, glassing the snidey old codger, before yanking Julie up by the wrist and running outside to his moped. "And I wouldn't ride a motorbike if you fucking paid me!"
****************************************
Faruk took the A23 from Crawley back to London. He was fuming. Just one day was all he asked - couldn't he have one Bank Holiday Monday to himself and his girl? Why did everyone have to fuck it up for him? He cursed the day's events and swore to never leave Catford again - EVER!
A police roadblock was waiting up ahead. Armed cops were stopping all motorcyclists, forcing them onto their knees in the layby and yanking off their helmets.
"Right, get off" Faruk told Julie
"Eh?" she asked, bemused.
"You'll have to hitch your way back to London," he informed her. "This is the end of the line for me. These cunts keep banging on about tolerance and diversity, but if I'm gonna die, I'd rather die as a Mod than a Muslim!"
Julie wept and wailed, but Faruk was insistent. "Take this, it's been great going out with you," he said, handing her his target badge. "And here's a flick knife. If you get a ride with some perv and he tries it on, don't be afraid to use it"
"I love you" Julie sobbed, her eyes raw. "I'll never forget you"
It was time. The traffic was starting to move again, towards the line of police. Holidaymakers sat sweltering in their 4x4s, their kids making noise in the back. Faruk saw a clear gap and waited for a moment, gently revving his Lambretta. His mind flashed back to Phil Daniels' self-immolation in Quadrophenia and he felt content. Hitting a button on his handlebar, he activated the timebomb that nestled inside his engine, flicked the timer to "10 seconds", and took his final ride, at high speed, towards the ranks of massed pigs in his path.
FIN
Suddenly - his doris, Julie, spotted a gang of Hell's Angels bearing down on her boyfriend's moped! Faruk laughed to himself. No bearded hippie slob was going to scare off this Catford scooter boy - he'd had enough of that from the mullahs who'd made his childhood a misery. He'd had his Lambretta customised recently, now was a perfect opportunity to check out its additional functions!
"Let's see how these rockers fare against a bit of old-fashioned firepower!" Faruk smirked, as a cluster of heat-seeking missiles exploded from the sides of his back wheels. The beautiful blue morning sky flipped to a black and red sulphuric cloud of bloody death as the lethal weapons made contact with the bikers' fuel tanks, blowing the Hawkwind fans into next fucking Xmas! "Mod violence! Mod rule!" Faruk yelled triumphantly, as the Quadropheniasoundtrack began to blare in his head.
***************************
The duo decided to park up for a snog in the grass. They had plenty of time to get to Lingfield for the horse racing. After they'd sucked each others' tonsils bandy, Faruk cracked open a can of Stella and played with his handbag house-digging girlfriend's hair.
"Oi! I thought Muslims weren't allowed to drink!" she scolded him.
"There's a lot of things we're not allowed to do" he winked, trying to shove his hand down the back of her skirt, before she batted him away!
"Look," he reasoned. "All I care about is Mod. I'm sick of fucking trendy wankers on TV talking about what person I'm meant to be. Give me a couple of albums by The Jam and The Jolt, and a good scooter rally, and I'm hap - are you listening to me?"
"Oh my God!" Julie screamed. "Look, greasers! Hundreds of them!"
A squadron of Angels perched at the top of the field, revving their Kawasakis! (NOTE - THEY COULDN'T AFFORD HARLEYS, DON'T HAVE A GO AT ME) Faruk, sprung into action. He gripped the handlebars of his scooter, causing two mini-machine guns to pop out over the headlamps, spraying the bikers with bullets. After a few minutes, the grease lay dead, and an eerie silence gripped the field.
"Right, we might as well get going," Faruk said.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Julie screamed hysterically. "Look, they're getting up again!"
"They must be zombies," Faruk regretfully surmised. "Quick, jump on the back, we'll just have to try and shake them!"
****************************
MEANWHILE, IN A NEARBY FIELD - an anarchist dark ambient festival was taking place! Revellers sat cross-legged, soaking up the sun and listening to a man in a jester's hat, DJing Portion Control and Lustmord records!
To India Sloane-Belsize, this was utopia itself. The young poetess and animal activist had always fantasised about dropping out of mainstream society and discovering herself at a non-profit festival. And here she was, after 20 years of hellish family holidays in the South of France, finally talking to her hero, the legendary Jerry Baudelaire!
Baudelaire was considered a 'shaman' on the alternative festival scene. He'd first come to prominence in the '70s, as outspoken leader of the anarcho-punk band Drab, who'd been so subversive, they'd distributed their records by hand in various tube stations. 30 years on, and Baudelaire was walking around starkers, save for a pair of clogs - fashioned from stale wholemeal bread!
India blushed as the guru approached her. "Come with me, my delightful creature", the grey-haired hippie whispered in her shell. "I want to take you into the woods, to show you...a true wonder of nature!"
She followed him, holding hands, excited by the prospect of being allowed to glimpse the most intimate secrets of the Goddess. Baudelaire was legendary for supposedly being able to project the contents of his LSD-ravaged brainstalks onto other people. This would be an experience that no 76k a year job in airline management could ever offer her!
However, her curiosity turned to terror as Baudelaire, still gripping her hand, squatted down over a clump of shrubs and squeezed out a turd! "Don't look away!" he yelled. "This is the wonder of nature! The return of organic matter to the soil from where all life springs!" India fought the urge to spew as the hippie from hell wiped his arse on a dock leaf and held the smeared plant-part under her nose. The fact he now had a raging hard-on wasn't helping either.
Suddenly - a mighty roar came from the stage area! Baudelaire sprinted back, leaving his young protege free to scarper and hitch a ride back to Hampstead. The crowd's enjoyment of the Psykik Warriors Ov Gaia track had been ruined by the sight and sound of Faruk's scooter tearing towards them!
"Boo!" shouted a juggler in a Charles Manson T-shirt.
"Nazi scum, off our fields!" a pregnant woman with pink dreads and her tits out howled.
"Quick, brain that fuckin' ethnic!" Baudelaire ordered. However, the dark ambienteers were too slow. Faruk managed to steer past them, while the rotating blades spinning from his hubcaps severed the feet of anyone mad enough to come too close. Zipping through a gate, Faruk evaded the mob and got back onto the main road.
"OK, chill out," David Tibet announced over the microphone, as Current 93 ran through their soundcheck. But it was the last thing he'd ever say - as a thousand re-animated zombie Hell's Angels suddenly ploughed through the field, turning the main stage into a blazing inferno - of DEATH!
************************************
Faruk slowed down and stopped off at a cafe'. Inside, he ordered a bacon sarnie, while Julie opted for egg and chips. After 16 years of denial, he was now making up for lost time on the pork front. He'd never read anywhere that Mods couldn't eat whatever they sodding liked, whenever they sodding wanted. He couldn't imagine The Chords turning down a sausage bap.
Julie checked out the jukebox while Faruk lit up a fag.
"Any Purple Hearts on the juke?" he asked
"Er...no", she replied, quickly flipping past the Purple Hearts - The Hits album. Instead she found a Hed Kandi compilation, and stuck on some Deep Dish and Tall Paul.
Suddenly - three Young Conservatives entered the cafe'! They were talking loudly about David Cameron's chances of election.
"Three teas, and scones!" the leader, a youth wearing a suit and a pound of hairgel, barked at the OAP behind the counter.
"And no sugar in mine!" warned his companion, who was wearing chinos, boating shoes, a jumper tied around his neck and a "HANG GEORGE GALLOWAY" badge, the size of a paper plate
"Hurry up, you old fool!" the third, a bloated thug in a Dire Straits T-shirt, growled as he sized up to the elderly proprietor.
The Tories sat down, and started chatting. Faruk tried to ignore them. He'd already wasted enough time outracing the bikers, and his planned day at the nags hung in tatters. Julie sat back down as the OAP shuffled over with their plates of food.
"Those Londoners deserved those bombs!" Tory B shouted. "Facking city scum, telling farmers they're not allowed to hunt, it serves them right!"
"I don't know who I hate more", Tory A grunted, "Londoners or those bloody Muslims. Both trying to extinguish our way of life! I hope they kill each other."
"Yeah, religious nutjobs, sticking their women in ninja costumes", Tory C agreed. "Still, just as well - they're ugly as murder!"
"Unlike that bit of totty, over there," whispered Tory B, pointing at Julie. "Bet you £100 I can get her away from that charity case she's sat with and ask her out for an ale tonight!"
"You're on!" the two other twats spat.
Tory B strode over to the table, and stood in such a way his arse was inches from Faruk's face. He thought he'd impress Julie with his powers of seduction, by taking a chip from her plate and using it to pierce the yolk of her egg, before raising it to her lips.
But - he didn't get that far! Faruk lunged forward with his fork, stabbing it through the Conservative's paw, and pinning his hand to the plate. The Tory wept in pain as a fountain of red blood and yellow yolk erupted from between his knuckles. Faruk grabbed a bottle of brown sauce and smashed it off the table, prompting the other Tories to race for the door, farting in fear.
The OAP was on the blower. "Yes officer, come qu-quickly! An immigrant has just walked into my cafe' and assaulted a white youth! He has a motorbike! Quick, before he ge-gets away!"
"I'm from Catford, you old cunt!" Faruk yelled, glassing the snidey old codger, before yanking Julie up by the wrist and running outside to his moped. "And I wouldn't ride a motorbike if you fucking paid me!"
****************************************
Faruk took the A23 from Crawley back to London. He was fuming. Just one day was all he asked - couldn't he have one Bank Holiday Monday to himself and his girl? Why did everyone have to fuck it up for him? He cursed the day's events and swore to never leave Catford again - EVER!
A police roadblock was waiting up ahead. Armed cops were stopping all motorcyclists, forcing them onto their knees in the layby and yanking off their helmets.
"Right, get off" Faruk told Julie
"Eh?" she asked, bemused.
"You'll have to hitch your way back to London," he informed her. "This is the end of the line for me. These cunts keep banging on about tolerance and diversity, but if I'm gonna die, I'd rather die as a Mod than a Muslim!"
Julie wept and wailed, but Faruk was insistent. "Take this, it's been great going out with you," he said, handing her his target badge. "And here's a flick knife. If you get a ride with some perv and he tries it on, don't be afraid to use it"
"I love you" Julie sobbed, her eyes raw. "I'll never forget you"
It was time. The traffic was starting to move again, towards the line of police. Holidaymakers sat sweltering in their 4x4s, their kids making noise in the back. Faruk saw a clear gap and waited for a moment, gently revving his Lambretta. His mind flashed back to Phil Daniels' self-immolation in Quadrophenia and he felt content. Hitting a button on his handlebar, he activated the timebomb that nestled inside his engine, flicked the timer to "10 seconds", and took his final ride, at high speed, towards the ranks of massed pigs in his path.
FIN
# posted by Martin : 4:34 PM <%=MakeComment("114649816203464387","beyond the implode:BANK HOLIDAY BLOODBATH!","http://seagullscreamingkillherkillher.blogspot.com/2006/05/bank-holiday-bloodbath.html")%>
