Myfanwy Detterling writes..
Detterling trainspotting aged fifteen
Hi everyone. I'm Myfanwy Detterling. I am a niece of Canting Detterling the aging Tyneside Free Mason.
I'd just like to say that Detterling is a disgrace to our family with his support for sodomy, abortion and assisted dying.
I so look forward to the roasting he will receive from Swashbukling Mulligan
Pathetic, scraping the bottom of the barrel, recycling the fatuous trainspotting idea yet again. And it’s notable that you keep threatening to write more Swashbuckling Mulligan crap but never do - because you can’t think of anything to say that you haven’t said fifteen times already to no effect.
ReplyDeleteFace it, Gene, you’re fucked.
You can’t even spell Myfanwy properly, you ignorant pisspot.
Chianti on the cornflakes again, was it? You can’t help being a fuckwit, but being a drunken fuckwit shames even a pitiable cretin like you.
Swashbuckling Mulligan writes:
ReplyDeleteFor breakfast a fuckwit called Gene
had cornflakes, poached eggs and poteen;
then wrote in his blog
prose as lucid as fog -
that is, dense, wet, unclear and obscene.
Welcome Myfanwy. Good to have yet another member of the Detterling family on the scene.
ReplyDeleteMary Winterbourne
Pitiful, Gene. Do you SERIOUSLY imagine that nobody knows that “Mary Winterbourne” is you? Why do you bother, you daft prick?
DeleteRepeating again? Oh! dear. Dementia really taking hold now
Delete"Myfawnwy" is an alternative, phonetic spelling of the traditional Welsh name Myfanwy. Pronounced muh-VAN-wee (or mə-VAN-wee), it is of Welsh origin and translates to "my beloved" or "my dear one". The name was popularized by a famous 19th-century Welsh song.
ReplyDeleteIt is not how to spell Myfanwy properly- it’s a pronunciation guide, a very different thing. Think of how Gene Vincent is pronounced Nasty Creeping Jesus.
ReplyDeleteStill nothing from Swashbuckling Mulligan, I see. How to cheat and still lose.
One of your nastiest ploys, Gene: re-posting my posts and then making nasty jokes about dementia. No wonder you got barred from the Good Yarn under the No Sods Allowed policy.
ReplyDeleteRepeating again? Dementia no doubt.
ReplyDeleteSwashbuckling Mulligan writes:
ReplyDeleteGene Vincent finished masturbating. These days he could manage only a half-hard on and it was a long time since there'd been any ejaculation other than a muffled "fucking hell" when an over-vigorous down-stroke gave him a painful tweak of the fraenulum. But it was now part of his day.
First, the drinking of the morning tea, his hands shaking and his head throbbing from the two bottles of Aldi Chianti and the Jamieson's chaser that clubbed him into a sleep filled with dreams of knicker-less nubiles.
Then, the aimless fiddling with the rosary for his special intention: "Utinam Detterlingo testiculi decidant; oro Deum ut desinat me sic dedecorare—nam in omni certamine me superat, nec invenio quomodo eum tacere cogam. Quamdiu mihi patiendum est ut me tam ridiculum et turpem reddat?"
And then, finally, came the attempted wank - an attempt that grew more perfunctory daily. It had been twelve years since Marianne, finally having had enough of his halitosis, cursory anal hygiene, the rankness of his putrid smegma and worst of all the perfunctory pawing and fingering that passed for sexual foreplay, had thrown him out of the marital bed. His single attempt to return to it had been met with a stiletto heel to the groin that still ached on windy days.
And then came the worst humiliation of all: yet another attempt to write a sequel to his trail-blazing first novel, a vanity publication called Granny Barkes fell in Woolworths, currently at number 7, 423, 987 in the Amazon Best Seller list, having sold 134 copies in two and a half years. His last royalty statement, showing a payment of £1.14p, had bought a bag of chips in Uxbridge High Street.
With this new novel Gene was planning to break fresh ground. Called “Great-Uncle Claude was once the most notorious bugger in London”, the novel was examining his distant relative’s rampant and predatory sexual appetites through prisms created by great classic novelists of the past. Having mislaid the tissue he had had on hand in case the morning masturbation had borne fruit, Gene blew his nose on to the carpet, harvested two succulent bogeys from his left nostril, ate them, sat down and began to type:
“Most people know it’s true that when a practising homosexual finally gets it right, and when more than that he has a few quid in the emergency condom up his jacksie just in case he gets lucky, he starts looking for an arsehole with which to grow old. It was a sunny spring morning - although with a Nip in the air - Claude’s neighbour was a lavatory attendant at the Japanese Embassy – and his Apple Watch was reminding him that it was the thirteenth of the month.
For the moment, however, Claude “Arse-Bandit” Kennedy had other preoccupations than the date. Last night’s catamite had been pure but somehow sleazy; he had seemed to know what he was doing but had completely misunderstood the difference between anal and crural intercourse. Claude, as a Catholic, knew that the thing was to enjoy the sin of sodomy, confess it, be absolved, say your Hail Mary’s and leave the church looking for someone else to bugger. Arnold [probably not his real name] had scoffed at this mumbo jumbo – “if you believe that you’ll believe anything”, he sneered.
Not for the first time, Claude “Arse Bandit” Kennedy wondered if would be better off trolling the better lit north side of Piccadilly instead of the murkier south pavement; whether his hope for a succulent youth would once again be betrayed by the raddled and pendulous cloacae of the hopeless rent boys well past their sell-by date. Last week, the priest at Confession [himself not averse to a quick fondle of the foreskin] had assured him of his access to heaven. But was he, the most notorious bugger in London, in fact bound for an eternity of sphincters closed to all but the insertion of a goose quill”?
Wow, Mr Mulligan, you’ve really swashed your buckle this time. This is on a par with Henry Miller’s lyrical celebration of the sordid - the lives of quiet desperation led by inadequates like Gene as their unwanted self-actualisation begins to dawn on them. My only caveat is that the prose supposedly written by Gene is far too fluent, deftly composed and above all subtle to be convincing, particularly in its submerged allusions to Austen, Orwell and Dickens. Gene’s prose is laboured, clunky and dull: and where better writers allude, Gene simply steals. Other than that a brilliant start, Mr Mulligan - can’t wait for Part Two.
ReplyDeleteGary Bandall and Sebastian d’Orsai.
Once again the nasty ploy of re-posting my posts and then making nasty cracks about dementia, Gene? What a piece of filth you are.
ReplyDeleteSwashbuckling Mulligan writes:
ReplyDeleteGene stopped typing as his anal sphincter twanged menacingly, in the way it had begun to do recently, warning him that he had twenty seconds at best to get to the toilet. Enfeebled by a crapula as he was every morning, it was over half a minute before he made it there this morning, by which time he could already feel himself befouled. Abandoning the toilet, he climbed into the bath, stripped off his pyjama trousers, threw them into the washing basket and emptied his bowels, loudly and abundantly, where he stood. When he had done he switched on the shower and cleaned up - first himself and then the bath, chivvying recalcitrant fragments of turd down the plughole with his big toe.
Back in the bedroom, swathed in a blanket pulled from his bed, he read what he had just written.
"No good", he muttered, "too clever by half, arty-farty show-off stuff, give up, back to the drawing-board, start again, clean sheet, take another run at it..."
Pausing only to pick his nose and eat a particularly succulent vermiform bogey, Gene deleted and began again.
"It's true, and pretty much everyone knows it, but a middle-aged middle-class bumboy in possession of a fortune must be in want of a husband, thought Claude "Arse-bandit" Kennedy as he left his Acton block of flats, Conquest House. It was a bright, cold day in April, and for some reason the clock in the hallway was striking thirteen.
Was that some sort of omen? mused Claude. After all, last night in the Cromwell Road Wetherspoons - known throughout South Kensington as Nasty Nancy's Castle - had been memorable. It was the best of times, especially that young Greek Apollo with the face of a Narcissus and a derriere like a ripe peach. At the same time, it was the worst of times when that old queen Eugene the Groper had tried to muscle in, him and his Creme de Menthe frappe...it was time some people grew up and realised that we lived in an age of wisdom even if some people were too foolish to see it. Some people!
"You'd better believe it, Groper", Claude had snarled, "this is the age of belief, even if you find it hard to believe. April is nearly over and soon we'll be in the season of light with the season of darkness of winter well behind us."
How true that was, mused Claude as he minced down Churchfield Road, his yellow velour trousers twinkling with his stride like two animated bananas, topped by his red velvet jacket like the cherry on top of a fruit sundae - fruity indeed, chuckled Claude to himself, ha! ha! ha! And as for the mauve silk blouse with the terra cotta cravat - was he a sight for sore eyes [or sore bottoms, come to that, ha! ha! ha!] or was he a sight for sore eyes?
It was spring all right, the spring of hope, hope for a new start, an end to the sordid succession of one night stands, furtive couplings in the YMCA showers, cubicles in a chain of Public Conveniences. He'd had enough of the winter of despair and on his good days wondered if he had everything before him - a life with that Apollo with the peach down on his delectable derriere, for example. On the other hand. he wondered, what if had nothing before him but another endless procession of sagging cheeks and instead of going direct to Heaven with the Apollo with the delectable derriere, he - and all of his shirt-lifting brethren, were all going direct the other way.
continued...
continued...
DeleteIn short, the period - long before the enlightenment of John Wolfenden's reforms - was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only - in other words, thought Claude, this was the best we could expect.
A shrill, fluting voice broke across his thoughts like someone farting in church.
"Oh, Great-Uncle Claude? heartface? - that post-dated chequey-wecky you gave me just came back from the banky-wanky marked "refer to Uncle Nancy, the old queen". What's all that about, Great-Uncle Claude?"
"Oh, mother of God," thought Claude, "not that posturing ponce Gene again. When's he going to get the message that there's more to being homosexual than walking about looking as though you've got a half crown clenched between the cheeks of your derriere?"
Nonetheless, he paused in his stride, turned, and faced his great nephew. And what a sight met his eyes.
Bouffant hair, a face caked with make-up like Coco the Clown, a denim jacket over a frilly shirt, a pair of wine-coloured chinos, sandals and yellow socks; left arm in the air, fingers negligently dangling a cigarette holder with a Balkan Sobranie burning in it, and the right arm, hand on hip, in the classic teapot-handle pose of the cartoon bumboy.
"I thought I'd already told you to fuck off?", said Claude.
[to be continued]
Repeating again? Dementia really taking hold now.
ReplyDelete"you keep threatening to write more Swashbuckling Mulligan"
ReplyDeleteSwashbuckling Mulligan will strike and how!
You do not know the day. You do not know the hour. All you need to know is that the satire will be devastating.
No it won’t, Gene. You can’t write a coherent sentence, as this demented bombast proves.
ReplyDelete“Devastating satire” my arse.
You’re insane.