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Registered: 08/07/03
Posts: 741
Loc: Antwerpen.
Last seen: 9 years, 5 months
"Broken And Torn In Holland." (An account)
    #2648990 - 05/07/04 03:32 AM (14 years, 1 month ago)

Broken And Torn In Holland.

......................And then they fucked me out! I was out-raged!
I'd spent the day getting right fucked up on a complicated alphabetic array
of research chems and 'shrooms.
MDA.GHB.MTA.2CB2.DMT.LSD. That jumbled line of letters brought me to a place
I'd only ever read of in books and clocked in cheap late night, late Sixties
movies. The local Bordello.
But that comes at the end of a very, very long day.
We'd (myself and this speed freak called originally as he was Dutch and
called Martin "Dutch Martin") taken the day off. Went on the hike. Taken a
powder and shot the breeze. The sun was splitting the very tarmac under our
feet making it difficult to walk straight without lurching. "It's only the
drugs, mate".
"It's fuckin' nat the drugs! It's this black melting shite! Sayin' I can't
take my drugs? Wha!?!"
We'd headed straight for the Smart Shop at ten in the morning. > Embarrassingly enough waiting outside for the place to open. It's a fact.
There are people, sadly of which I would appear to be one, who look dodgy
and act dodgy all the time. Even though the store was legally selling
"enhancement products" we still were looking shifty outside on the street.
Pacing up and down. Spitting. Cotton white bubbles on pavement. Watching it
sizzle in the heat of the morning sun.
Or that may have been the drugs that we'd consumed before leaving the house.
Dutch Martin. Class A mAd mAn. No holes barred, full on fuckin spacer. You
ever clock that guy from Wacky Races? The one with the speech impediment?
Could well have been Dick Dastardly co-pilot. Or was that a dog? The stutter
guy. That was Dutch Martin. He'd take so much in the way of speed that he had difficulty bringing himself down to a level easy enough for us mere mortals
to comprehend without heads spinning and looks of confusion abounding. I
thought he was a fucking legend though. I saw the guy shine. One of those
people that truly do live for the moment and take tomorrow as and when it
comes. The kind of person that good stories are written of and 1950's movie
producers loved so much to make us hate. True anti-hero.
Hanging around with him was always an adventure. Strange messed up
situations in areas of the city that you weren?t even aware were there were
opened up and presented to you with a glazed half mad expression and a
highly charged explanation of what you'd been missing and, "where the fuck
have you been living', mate?!? It's the city!?!".
Whenever we got together it was never planned or prearranged in anyway. He'd
turn up somewhere and invariably within the hour I'd be toasted and up for a
This time he'd started lobbing stones at my window 4.00am Friday morning.
Not the best time for me as I was to get to work in a few hours. I'd not had
more than a fitful hours sleep all night due to the speed I'd taken through
the day to get me over the speed I'd taken the day before to get over the
day before................
So I was a little grouchy and was all for just letting the stones fly. But
when one came through I had to concede that he'd got my full attention.
Where I was living at the time was a mess of a place. An old hostel taken
over by some gangsters. Then rented to us for a pittance each week. So you
never knew who was going to be banging at the door or clodding stones at
4.00am in the morning. The house had a bad reputation and was the scene of
much cocaine smoking and late night parties. There was always some clampet
hammering on the door thinking there'd be someone up for a smoke. So I
approached the window with care.
One night I awakened to find this guy going through my stuff and helping
himself to some of the better bits. Says I, "Here, mate, the parties up
stairs. Away t'fuck!".
And he turns on me, 'mind now I'm naked in bed, with a blade and snarls in a
true evil villains Jonny Foreigner "By Jingo" voice, "Theeesss partyzzzzz
izzz over f'r yooo, offendi!". Thought I was going to die right there, no
messing, like. But he swatched around a bit more then pissed off to another
room of the house. I left that whole scene to someone else and simply
barricaded my door, wired myself to the bollocks on base and got tooled up.
Quite frightening but I'm sure I made more of it than it truly warranted. Or
I'm just fuckin' nails! Right!?! Wha!?!
But it was Dutch Martin and I'd not seen him for a while so I let him in. He
was often doing this. To be honest I knew him for two years and I never once clocked where he stayed when he wasn?t fueled up, out and about. He would
turn up on your doorstep, or as you see sometimes often his arrivals were
slightly less prosaic. He'd start suddenly from whatever it was he was doing
before you opened the door. Maybe picking pieces out of the mortar twixt the
bricks. Or full attention focused on the problem of jiggling a nail out from
the wall. This time it looked as if he'd been at his laces again. I'd
noticed this one before this. His obsession with keeping his laces even and
level with each other. Once he got onto that kick you knew the guy had been
on one of his longer journeys. Maybe a four or five high-octane fuelled days
racing from place to place. His pockets filling up with miscellaneous pieces
of acquired nonsense which he then takes and places around him as he sits
making one of his frequent joints or speed bombs, or "Battle of the Somme?s"
for the initiate or even better an "Up and At'em Bomb", holding certain
items up with reverence. Then launching into a break neck account of where,
who and what the circumstances were "was this, right, I'd been in the caf?
and this other guy that I was telling you
listentowhatI'm.........".Dos'ent even come close to it. And all the time
you?re thinking, how does he do it?
I'll tell you how he managed it. With the aid of bombs of speed a gram+.
Down in one son then get them in don?t spare the horses and stick another
load in the boiler my good man!
Seeing him at it at that time in the morning. When I myself had slept so
little. And I loved base at the time and had a very low resistance to
temptation spending most of my own time in a spaced but focused bubble
introspected with flashing lights and strange aural sounds from sleep
deprivation. So I clocked him cracking out the dust and was right on the
case. "One of those taxed for me getting up and letting you in, mate". No
worries. I got ready in a daze and we smoked a few joints. Sipping on a some
GHB that I'd purchased and was keeping for a special occasion. After that
kicked in and the sun had really started to show its colors we decided to
ditch work. I say we but I never heard of Marty working. It wasn?t that he
had money 'cause he didn?t. He just didn?t seem to need it. He sold a bit of
dust and a few pills and for the rest seemed to get by on Gods faith that
the rest would follow suit. Which it invariably did for him? Fair fucks I
say. The world needs someone to stand in its way at times. And if it need be
in the guise of someone as brilliantly minded and gifted in the arts of
mayhem as Dutch Marty, then all the better.
Now that I had decided to skive I had to be quick. My employer in a van for
work picked me up outside my front door and the clock was ticking round to
the time of his arrival at an alarming rate. The GHB had really kicked in
and time had taken on the elastic kinda' feeling. When you think....
you?ve.... just.... got. All...the...time...in....the. QUICK! Fuck! They'll
be here in a second!
Quickly in Dutch Martins time involves him sketching around for a bit
stuffing his pockets with clutter. In the process acquiring a few new bits.
Stuff on Dutch Martins list that if he were ever stuck in a zoo there would
be a big sign saying, "PLEASE KEEP THESE ITEMS CLEAR FROM ENCLOSER!!", would
be: Pens. Gone in a flash. Shoe laces/string/elastic bands/paper clips.
Anything small and round that can be juggled with. Screws/nuts/bolts.
Straws. Stuff. Jackdaw stuff. Shiny stuff.
And that's how we found ourselves demented running up the road at 6.00am on
a Friday morning. Hiding behind trees whenever we saw a transit van.
Smart Shops are fantastic places. If you have a taste for the strange and
wonderful and enjoy the experience of pick & mixed bags of herbs and spices your right in luck. When you find a good one your made. Some that you find
only really stock 'shrooms and a few dodgy sex aids. Good ones though can
offer you a range of products that have as yet managed to escape the evil
net of drug enforcement laws. And they get you trashed. Toasted. Like a kid
in a candy shop we checked the wares on offer asking advice for the unknown
and untried of the stock. Settling on some MTA, which is an ecstasy like
pill in effect though sort of trippy and kind of heavy. 2CB2's. Very strong
chemical trip complete with vivid flashing lights and intense visuals. Not
for the unwary. Some Saliva Divinity we took for the hell of it. It's not
big and it's not clever. And it's for sure not a party drug but we were on a
mission that day intending to go as far as we could without brains dripping
from our ears and puddling at our feet.
With a box of 'shrooms to be going on with we once again hit the streets
waving a found farewell to the shop keeper who was smiling and shaking his
head in a Kid's-these-days sort of way.
We headed toward the park for a quiet seat away from humanity. While the
assorted chem. took hold swishing us from one extreme to the other we had
one of our patented conversations. Leaping from topic to topic without a
break in the flow. And very little sense. A true roller-coaster ride of
immense psychedelic proportions.
My head was in serious trouble now that the 'shrooms had kicked in and I
must confess to taking a little time out behind a bush to get rid of the
contents of my stomach. Which consisted I'm sure you'll want to know of
green bubbly stuff and typically some carrots.
It was a little after this time that Dutch Marty recalled being given a
blotter of Acid a couple of days previous to this. And as he was still
wearing the same jacket we were quids in. Ripped & Torn. Beyond repair.
Apparently, and I must say apparently as I've no memory of this, DM had to
physically restrain me as I went to attack a dog (that wasn?t there) passing
by growling at us. Screaming and foaming at the mouth I leap up and
lurched/lunged toward the culprit. Only to trip over a small fence. And
while stretched out on the ground allegedly wrestled with the beast roaring
As I say I must take his word on this but there were grass stains and
bruises that seemed to back up his wild claims.
Seems a little out of character but at this time due to the Persian Rugs I
could have taken on any persona as malleable as I was. Next clear, 100%
memory that I have is of us walking down main street and DM walking into a
post and rebounding into some guy that then pushed him into the post again.
Then he fell. To me he looked like some fucked up pinball machine. And that
got me a fit of giggles so hard I lay on the ground looking up at the
melting faces of the passers by as they stared in disbelief at these two
maniacs rolling around on the cobble stones convulsed with laughter at one
of them getting (perhaps) badly hurt. What are mates for, eh?
I'm sitting here now smiling thinking about it.
I don?t think I had or have since laughed as hard and as care free as that
Yes, sure you can say it was the drugs.
Of course it was. But that doesn?t diminish the memory. Broke and torn in
The Police who meandered over toward us with the patient attitude of a pair
of mental health care workers clocked us.
They gave us the general once over to make sure we were only going to be a
danger to ourselves and not others. Then, in the true nature of the Dutch
Police force they patted us on the head and let us wobble on our way.
I have an image of being escorted from an amusement arcade. For whatever
reason I guess I'll never know. Flashing lights and pinging sounds. I
sometimes get flash backs on that when I do psychedelics nowadays. When that
happens I can almost taste the pinda sauce from the chips we tried to eat in
a caf? before, yes you guessed it, we were escorted from the premises. DM
starting to mash chips and pinda sauce onto the walls and draw what I guess
was some kind of cryptic message warning us both in a Stephen Kingesque
manner of the mayhem and madness yet to come. The owners of the caf? didn?t
clock that though. They just saw some cunt with a blissed out smile messing
up their business and scaring people away as his mate lay across the chairs
with tears falling from his tightly clenched eyes. Face all red and breath
short from the effort of containing the mirth abounding.
Smoking the Salvia was a mistake. If only 'cause it sort of sobered me up.
Concentrating the chaos into a tight ball of paranoia and extreme, extreme
panic that we were being followed by something unspecified and deeply,
deeply unwanted.
Thinking back on it it was probably the great beast of Responsibility I was
trying to out run.
Whatever the nature of the beast was I wanted no truck with it and demanded
(as much as someone with spit hanging from their chin can demand) to go back
to the park. "Give me trees and ducks or give me death". I heard someone
mumbling/shouting. I guess I should entertain the notion that it was I as it
was coherent which DM was far from being.
Some poor sap stopped us as we walked and asked the time.


Complete head wrecker. I couldn?t get the concept to spark a memory in me. I
remember asking him repeat numerous times in different ways and still
nothing. Shaking his head he backed away slowly and didn?t stop looking
behind him till he was a safe distance away from us. I was perplexed.

Perplexed and lost.

The veil lifted then. The chemical fuzz changing gear and leaving me more or
less momentarily in control of my brain. But only momentarily. I hadn?t a
clue where I was. The buildings, well the buildings were fucked up right
there. Who designed these houses? Dimensions asquew. Windows bulging and
colors merging together and pooling, running over and through the cobbles.
Sign posts spinning around me. Each one with a million spin off thoughts
attached. A trillion tangents coming off the first. And I'm considering each
and everyone. Giving them all the full attention they deserve. Peoples
faces, clowns?!? Why is it I always see clowns when I'm fucked up? And all
the signs where pointing to one thing. I'd splitched and ditched on Dutch
Marty. Or he had splitched and ditched on me. Either way it all came to the
same. Half'a'one and a blind dogs nodding at yer granny or something. I was
displaced in an area of the city I didn?t know. To mashed to make sense of
what people said or even be able to approach someone with out twisting them
out of shape. Doing something outlandish and making them think I was a
freak. My head was positively pounding with paranoia by now. Why?d that cunt
split? Was it something I just said? What was I talking about? I'd been
talking to someone I'm pretty sure wasn?t Marty for a while I was sure of
that. But whatever the topic was is lost on me now.

And then.




My name being called. But this was normal. I was sure this was part of my
egotist self love trip. Mental massage. Mixed with a generous helping of
maintaining a sense of self-awareness. I had had a loop of a handful of
thoughts that every so often would flash neon across my brain. Nonsense
stuff. One of them though was my name. Only this wasn?t my mental voice. I
know. I tend to speak to myself a lot. I spin round having again another one
of those lucid moments to see DM half in half out of a door with a mirror on
the front. So to me it looks like he's only got half a body.


I've sat here trying hard to find the words to describe what that looked
like at the time and..... just.... can?t.

I stood and stared. Finger raised and half a word struggling to get out.
Trying to stop the passersby to point out what they were missing. But was
this not the most amazing thing you've ever seen?!?

Marty couldn?t see it neither and thought I was just glad to have met up
with him again. Then I couldn?t get it out. And when I tried to show him a
shadow fell on the world.
I looked up. And up. And up. And there's these two huge bouncers staring
down at me. I smile being the pleasant chap that I am and they ask if I'm
coming in or out?
Deep focus on this. "You trying to call me a poof?!?" though for sure a
funny response is going to get me a good shoeing and I don?t want that. So I
actual take the time to formulate a well-structured and concise reply that
will both assure him of my good intentions and state of well-being.


Dim red lit room with carpet just about everywhere. Up and down the walls.
On the tables. Across the bar and it was beginning to creep onto the patrons
who were stashed away in booths visible only by clouds of smoke and low
guttural laughter. Or that may have been music. I don't know. I was falling
apart right there. I hadn?t a grasp on the situation at all. Right, I
thought. Outside they asked if I was coming in. That implies that this is a
public place. There is a reassuring row of alcoholic beverages behind that
clown?!? Another one?!? Steady the buffs time. So. People+drinks=bar? O.k.
So why then has this bouncer still got his hand gripped on my upper arm as
if I'm being escorted to a gallows pole? Fair question. I started the other
way and found my escape blocked by a pair of huge breasts. Huge breasts?!?
Wha'?!? I quickly whip my coupon the other way in confusion. Thinking I've
just developed that x-ray vision I always dreamed of as a kid. No bouncer.
In his place there is a coat hanger half in the sleeve of my coat and half
in the hand of some freak in a shiny suit that's tugging at my arm. I'm
still getting a bearing on the situation so I don't want to get leery here.
I shrug the jacket of. Forgetting the fact that my cash and Persians are in
the sky.
Back to my left and two pairs of huge breasts have replaced the first huge
pair of breasts. And to my left I see a mountain of flesh bearing down on
me. I've always been a bit prudish. I guess. Coming from a strict Protestant
background sex really was an unspoken word in our family home. But even had
I been the most sex-starved maniac alive after twenty hard years of solitary
confinement on a desert island with nothing but really fast sheep, or Yaks
or something. Or just women like this. I'd still not have shagged her. She was quite simply the largest
woman I have ever seen. She was three women in one. And I was beginning to
feel claustrophobic. Hemmed in between bull and a double pair of archers. A
rock and a hard place
The two ladies of the night at my side had departed. Not getting much of a
reaction from me other than a fixed grin and muffled giggles.
A meaty hand was placed on my leg and a gravelly voice asked if I wanted,
"anything special?"
Admitted the fact that with the state that I was in I'd be lucky to make it
to the first good camping and vantage point before my Sherpas pissed off and
my supplies ran out.
I pointed her toward Dutch Marty though. He was running his hands over the
carpeted wall. Muttering about electricity and friction, sparks, could start
a fire with the friction in this place build up of static we'd all burn in
someone else?s bed gotta' get earthed gotta' get earthed!!!!
I gave her the nod and said no worries. I'll fork the bill. Take him but
spare the children. I promised that I'd pray for her immortal soul should
she ever be back this way again and she slipped off into the mist. Much like
the Larne/Stranrae ferry. Complete with foghorns and tugs.
Getting Marty in a no holes barred rather professional for this time of the
evening half Nelson she laid him toward her lair. He still muttering of the
dangers of electrical build up in such an environment. She with a fixed
professional smile and already making out her next grocery list.
I ordered some kind of drink. I'm not sure. It was like Saki but not. It was
flammable though. As the barman proved as he poured a little from the jug
into the glass and sparked a light.


I was transfixed.

Time scale gone. Thought transplaced by soft terrible soft house music.
Occasionally someone would try to get sense from me. Mixed up bits of
conversation. Tried and tested on a hundred, a thousand drunks before. Maybe
not on someone as off the wall as I was at that point. Sheer delirium. I
didn?t know what they were saying so figured it didn?t matter what I said in
return. People came and went.
Commotion. The door to Marty's love nest flies open and Marty goes flying
out. Followed dangerously close by an avalanche of flesh and anger.
Oh no!
I crimpled! It was typical Marty. I had sent him in as a joke. Evil but
funny with it. I knew he was to toasted and would laugh at it later.
But the eye pencil; Classic. He'd went in and immediately was transfixed
with the lighting. Said he felt safer here than outside with all the
currents. Then he started through her dresser. Through the make up and
clutter. All this while this big boned lady was trying to trail him to bed
to add to the friction and maybe start a fire of her own.
Marty's not up for it though. 'Cause he's found a black light eye pencil and
is drawing on her wall. More of his cryptic warnings of impending darkness.
Out he flew.
As he landed the bouncers were already by his side. One a piece up and on
his feet. Bewildered and shook up but still holding his eye pencil he closed
one eye and tried to focus perchance to find me in the chaos. Locating me in
the haze he pointed and mumbled something to the bouncers. Who then half
carried him across to me with stern looks on their collective coupons.
"He says you can explain?"
I said that I had been playing a small joke on a friend and that there was
no harm done. He would give the pencil back and we'd all sit down for a
drink like civilized people.
Not a bit of it. They were not even entertaining the thought. Pay up and out
the fuck was the general consensus. And don't darken the doorstep on your
way out. Don't let the door catch yer arse as my Granny would say.
Ok. If that' the way it is. But I will say that in my day a little bit of
civility was commonplace and manners were shown at all time. Digging my
hands into my pockets I searched for my cash. Doing that stoned pocket
search that is the trademark of someone who's going to be at it for
sometime. And I was. But finally my pockets were empty and on show. But
there's not that much. Only coinage showing. Who's round is it? I quipped.
No fucking laughing matter says he. Pay the cash or your fucked. Words
escape me at how confused I was. I knew I was safe drinking. I mean that I
had been able to pour my own which would suggest that I had a jug. Which
would mean it was pre-paid for. The bar man took this moment to come across
and give the gorillas the nod that the booze was squared and they let Marty
go. All this time though the big naked girl is shouting and shaking over her
payment and pencil. Scraping up the coins I presented her with the
glittering handful. Disdainfully, and I must say very elegantly she spat on
them then smacked my hands spraying the shrapnel to the breeze.
Bending to pick up the spillage was not on the menu, as I didn?t want to get
near the bouncers feet at any stage of the trip. So smiling kinda' nicely I
locked a death grip on Marty and headed for the door shadowed buy the staff.
A gentle shove sent us through the door, which slammed leaving us in the
glare of arc lighting and gimlet eyes of street dwellers. We looked at each
other and shrugged shoulders. Pulling his collar tighter round his neck he
asked me, "where do you want to go now?"
I shrugged again and said I wasn?t fussed. But that I'd no cash left as it
was all rolling around inside. It was then that the door opened again and my
jacket was flung outside to land at our feet. I'd forgotten that in all the
Putting it on we headed down the street at a slant. Me laughing at the cut
of him. Then I remembered that my natural paranoia had me stash my bills
whenever I went out to make it a task for me to be a victim to causal crime.
And right enough. Tucked in the smallest pocket was my roll. And my stash.
Yes. A pill each to celebrate then onward and fucking upward. Keepin' on
keepin' on! And pushing things right the fuck forward!

But not after Marty left another of his incomprehensible marks on a
billposter with his black light eye pencil!

"Must'nt Grumble!".

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Re: "Broken And Torn In Holland." (An account) [Re: SummerBreeze]
    #2649049 - 05/07/04 04:25 AM (14 years, 1 month ago)

that was kinda fun to read, but hard to comprehend.

Not necessarily stoned, but beautiful

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Folding@home Statistics
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Re: "Broken And Torn In Holland." (An account) [Re: SummerBreeze]
    #2649076 - 05/07/04 04:59 AM (14 years, 1 month ago)

great but anarchist is right an american might have a hard time reading it
but i love it just the same
great writing skills i felt like i was really there
almost like something out of irvine welsh
5 shrooms


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His Dudeness
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Re: "Broken And Torn In Holland." (An account) [Re: SummerBreeze]
    #2649204 - 05/07/04 07:39 AM (14 years, 1 month ago)

haha that was a really fun read. at points i had to re-read to make sense of it but just a really great style. I'm no english proff so i cant really judge it good but it gave me a slight reminder of Hunter Thompson work, what with all the chaos and all in that totally carefree way. - Fun read.

Look, let me explain something to you. I'm not Mr. Lebowski. You're Mr. Lebowski. I'm the Dude. So that's what you call me. That, or His Dudeness … Duder … or El Duderino, if, you know, you're not into the whole brevity thing.

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Re: "Broken And Torn In Holland." (An account) [Re: SummerBreeze]
    #2649252 - 05/07/04 08:28 AM (14 years, 1 month ago)

Great piece of writing.  I especially enjoyed the part where Dutch Martin is bouncing around like a "fucked up pinball machine"  :lol:  Happy trails. :smile:


"It seemed to me culture is a shabby lie. Or at least this culture is a shabby lie. If you work like a dog, you get 260 channels of bad television and a German automobile. What kind of perfection is that?"-McKenna

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Re: "Broken And Torn In Holland." (An account) [Re: SummerBreeze]
    #2649512 - 05/07/04 11:33 AM (14 years, 1 month ago)

Great write up. Reminds me of my time in Holland.

"Prohibition goes beyond the bounds of reason in that it attempts to control a man's appetite by legislation, and makes a crime out of things that are not crimes." -Abraham Lincoln

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Re: "Broken And Torn In Holland." (An account) [Re: SummerBreeze]
    #2651080 - 05/07/04 07:55 PM (14 years, 1 month ago)

man i didn't understand very much....... but for some reason it didn't bother me...

great piece........

edit: reminded me of Trainspotting.

Edited by 0xYg3n (05/07/04 08:23 PM)

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Re: "Broken And Torn In Holland." (An account) [Re: 0xYg3n]
    #2662688 - 05/11/04 12:31 PM (14 years, 1 month ago)

"A Rush And A Push And The Land We Stand On Is Ours"

That's got me puzzled. It would appear to be a quote from a Smiths song that I can't quite place at the moment.

".no, no don't mention love....I'd hate the pain and the strain all over again......it has been before and it shall be again............"

Is it a quote from a historical figure? Other than Morrissey, of course.

Yes, thanks for the feedback. It is another penned for publishing with a German publishing house in the (very) near future.
The language barrier I don't believe should ever be an issue with writing. As one can read 17th century text (as long as it's in English of course)so should one also be capable of perusing the works of a comtempory. No matter what country or area it has stemmed from.
The beauty of language (I reckon) lies in it's diversity. Like struggling through a Shakespearian or Rabelaisian tale trying your very best to get to grips with the subtle nuance of the inherient humour of the day and period in which it was written. Much the same as, as was mentioned above, a book or story by Irvine Welsh of Train Spotting fame.
It's all good, is what I mean to say.
I've always enjoyed reading Beat novels from the 50ts. Diggin' the kitsch 50ts slang of the streets. I have a fantastic box set of cd's from the Beat era that cracks me up. Language in action. Ever changing & rearranging.
I speak pretty good Flemish and enjoy making use of my practice at work and in local caf?s. But there's nothing I enjoy more than getting together with a crowd of people from my own childhood area of Belfast back streets and freakin' the ballacks of the locals with a speedy barrage of abuse in guttural, broken English.

"G'wan ya cunt ye! Sur'n'yer gud'fer nattin' but wipin' yer Ma's soggy pish stained arse! Away't'fuck, ya oul' ballicks!"

That's a friendly greeting, BTW, Belfast style.

Anyone else fancy a go at a tale for me to read?

Or a good string of abuse to make me giggle?

"Must'nt Grumble!".

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Re: "Broken And Torn In Holland." (An account) [Re: SummerBreeze]
    #2665732 - 05/11/04 11:49 PM (14 years, 1 month ago)


SummerBreeze said:
"A Rush And A Push And The Land We Stand On Is Ours"

A Rush and a Push and the Land Is Ours is off Strangeways, Here We Come.

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Re: "Broken And Torn In Holland." (An account) [Re: EgoTripping]
    #2666599 - 05/12/04 02:39 AM (14 years, 1 month ago)

Aha! I knew that had a diffiant Smithsesque air about it!
Good old Morroissey!
Have you had the chance to hear his latest album, perchance?

"Must'nt Grumble!".

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Re: "Broken And Torn In Holland." (An account) [Re: SummerBreeze]
    #2666776 - 05/12/04 03:05 AM (14 years, 1 month ago)

Rush and a'push, the land that we stand on is ours.
It has been before and it shall be again, And people who are uglier than you and I, they take what they want and just leave, oh, but dont mention love, I'd hate that pain and the strain all over again, oh, rush and......and peoplewho are weaker than you and I they take what they want from life, oh, but don't mention love, no, no don't mention love.........

I can't get this out of my head now!!*

*Which is not such a bad thing at all!

"Must'nt Grumble!".

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