>>2014 Jesus Christ, I've long since made my peace with the fact that Dolly does and always will look like John Belushi. But it's a shock to me so see Camel looking so pasty-faced and, yes, horror of horrors, with a SEPTUM PIERCING! I know you girls do this kind of thing deliberately just to annoy men in general and me in particular, but let me tell you straight out, IT ISN'T WORKING! I'm just going to ignore you and let you uglify yourself as much as you want until you come to your senses and realize that God's intention for you was to decorate and beautify the earth and you begin to get your goddam act together again.
Both of you look as if you were highly unfamiliar with this sund and outside thing. Squinting, sun glasses and strangely pasty appearance. Don't pretend you are better than us basement dwellers11!!
Anonymous
>>2020 You're just stumbling unsuspectingly into Camel's Bre'er Rabbit (Se'er Camel?) trap, Anon. Being a natural beauty who has to beat off men with a stick (does that locution even still work now that "beat off" has come to mean something else?) is second nature, actually come to think of it FIRST nature to her, and she's bored with it and objects to it on ethical and political grounds. Calling her a pasty-faced basement-dweller without charm or feminine appeal is to pay her exactly the compliment she's angling for. Dolly, on the other hand.....Well, let's not go into that....
>>2025 Well, at least you don't represent such a danger to the public at large (particularly those of us getting larger every year) now that you consist only of the Plain Friend and her.....um...Plain Friend. My life has been blighted at regular intervals by the fatal one-two combo of the Femme Fatale and the Dumpy Dog-Faced Confidante and Chaperone for, I would estimate, nearly forty years now and I am delighted to see that there is now one less such Dastardly Duo in the world. I think it all began for me in the harsh winter of 1976-77, at the tender age of 17. The slightly older girl who had put me through the fiasco of my first experience of heterosexual intercourse had left me alone in the council flat she was renting in the then-desolate district of Somers Town in North Central London. From November through January and Februrary, I spent my young days despondently roaming the long, straight, New-York-style streets of that comfortless xlum consisting exclusively of cheap and run-down public housing projects from the period between the wars. Late one evening, I fell in - it was next to one of those public telephone boxes, I believe, that have no reason to exist any longer in our age of universal mobile communication - with a couple of local girls of around my age. In Somers Town in 1976, "local girls" was just about synonymous with semi-professional prostitutes and small-time criminals. One of them, though - the "Camel" of the pair - displayed the delicate, heart-enrapturing beauty of the young Olivia Hussey (just then gracing the pre-multiplex cinema screens of London in the early slasher movie "Silent Night, Evil Night"). Her friend closely resembled Dolly - that is to say, John Belushi, also enjoying a high cinematic profile at the time in "The Blues Brothers".
Anonymous
>>2026 Lonesome and bitter at having been abandoned by the woman who had "taken my innocence" a few months before - and also pathetically horny, of course (I was seventeen, for Christ's sake) - I agreed to the girl's suggestion that we go back to my flat and drink some beers together. The Olivia Hussey lookalike proved herself to have an amazing capacity for alcoholic consumption for someone who looked as thhough she were about to evaporate every second into pure sweetness, light and general delightfulness and the small supply of Watney's Red Barrel I had in the flat was soon exhausted. Innocent that I still, despite my recently forfeited virginity, still was, I allowed myself to be sent down tthe road by the girls - to the "Lamb and Lion", a notorious haunt of Islington and Finsbury gangsters that had seen the brutal killing of Benny "The Waistcoat" MacMulligan with a billiard cue only six months before - to fetch more beer. Needless to say, when I returned fifteen minutes later, the flat was empty and stripped of the few items of value that it contained (a stereo, Mary (my seducer's) dresses, and my newly-acquired Pleiade edition of the works of Marcel Proust). Pursuit, I knew, would be in vain - and its vanity was all the more tormenting because the strict, geometrical system of urban planning that characterized - almost uniquely in London at this period - the district of Somers Town meant that, in my maddened career through the midnight streets in search of my young despoilers, I did actually have the two of them in my sights for two or three minutes at a time, a half a mile or a mile down one of the long, straight, ill-lit thoroughfares that led from the Euston Road northward to Mornington Crescent or fron the Hampstead Road eastward to York Way. Even laden down by two stereo speakers and ten volumes of A La Recherche du Temps Perdu, however, the cunning little bitches were always nimble enough to slip into one or another of the housing estates and be lost from
Anonymous
>>2027 my sight again before I even got within distance enough to belabour them with curses and protests. Mary and her family, all practiced burglars and robbers themselves, would of course have none of my invented story of my discovering a break-in had occurred one night on returning from the local library (I was far too ashamed, needless to say, to admit to them that I had let the robbers in myself) and I was strongly suspected by them - out of character as it seemed for someone as ham-fisted and incapable as I was at 17 - of having looted the flat myself. This suspicion sufficed for my violent expulsion and the miserable Cain-like existence of endless wandering, that I have had to bear and suffer ever since, began. From this awful experience, however, I carried away one invaluable lesson: never trust women in pairs when one of them looks like Olivia Hussey playing the Virgin Mary and the other one looks like a bulldog eating a wasp.
You know I think this is a pretty nice story but you're not addressing the central problem here that Dolly is actually cute as fuck, and do you know... (everybody knows now)
Some girls are all about it Some girls they love to let it fly Some girls can't live without it Some girls are born to make you cry
>>2026 >>2027 >>2028 You have terrible choice in your use of conjunctions and commas. Also i doubt that the fact that you have been terrible at sex for over 35 years is the fault of women.
for the uninitiated, this is the fiasco of Alex's first experience of heterosexual intercourse
Anonymous
>>2037 Naked Among Hipsters Just dropping in briefly to say that I'm pleased to see that, despite my churlishness, a spirit of benignity appears to reign upon the boards at present.Both girls look absolutely charming in the latest batch of photos - though the way they switch in perfect sychronization from goofy-dorky to sombre-sexy is kind of spooky, like Village of the bleedin' Damned (The Midwich Cuckoos, if you're a reader, not a viewer). The frankly excellent draughts(wo)manship of the little series of sketches suggests them (to me, at least) to be the work of Camel, and I'd say much more in appreciation of them if I weren't having to work without a home Internet connection at present - I've been translating since 9 o'clock in a cafe full of the worst sort of hipster - but I hope a "bravo and thank you" will suffice for now.
>>2038 awwww yeeeee thanks. One-upping my draughtswomanship with some anonymous vandalist's chef d'oeuvre because it's necessary to suffer for art
Anonymous
>>2039 Oh, it wasn't yours? Sorry, my bad. Just wishful thinking, I suppose, that you might one day deign to scorn the dimensions of my penis, be it via the medium of the written word or that of the drawn line.
Anonymous
>>2037 >>2037 what's the brown stuff? a towel covered in shit? >>2040 i think she meant the pipe thing is not hers, but the drawing is.
>>2042 Yipee! I'm sure this will be another compliment you'd rather not have received, but your drawings stand out by their quality of not conforming AT ALL to rhe definition of "artistic beauty" that Kant offers in his "Critique of Judgment", namely, "that which engenders a pleasure devoid of all interest."
>>2028 That was one of the most glorious stories I've ever read
Anonymous
>>2046 Well, thank you. I'm actually working under what seem to me to be extremely adverse conditions at the
Anonymous
>>2047 only open (see, connection lost) between 3 pm and 7 pm on weekdays, if that. At present, of course, it is closed and shuttered, so I am sitting on the pavement in front of it, surrounded by little Turkish girls playing street table-tennis with their uncles (I hope it's theri uncles) and aggressive tatooed "crusties" from the nearby Rigaer Strasse who all give me glances of withering contempt as they pass. But yes, maybe I should finally settle down and write the story of my experiences in the last months of 1976 and the first of 1977, back in a time when all your fathers were boys. My association with the Walsh family - one of the five, I think, daughters of which was the "Mary" I mentioned - was an interesting episode in my life. I think they must have been one of the last historical representatives of the London "criminal classes" in the old Dickensian sense that has long since ceased to apply to any existing London criminals. Their "ancestral home" was in Clerkenwell, that is to say, in real Dickensian London. The house Mary and most of her siblings had been born in had stood on the site where, from about 1970 on, the offices of the Guardian newspaper stood. In the mid-70s, when I made theiir acquaintance, they lived - about ten of them in a thirty or forty square metre flat - on the Peabody Estate just across the road from there. I met Mary's brother, Fred, first when we were both working as hall porters in the Royal Scot Hotel a little way up the Clerkenwell Road. His motives for "adopting" me into the family were, as they inevitably are in such cases, mixed. I lent him a hundred pounds - the loan, of course, was never returned - when he was in difficulties (a hunded pounds was a fabulous sum in those days and for someone of Fred's social stratum). I remember on the one occasion that he accompanied me back to my home in the suburbs he was intimidated by what he considered its opulence. Ironic because, ten or fifteen years later, whenever I invited
Anonymous
>>2048 a friend from university back to the same home, they were invariably shocked and embarrassed by its extreme poverty. Such is England. Anyway, his sister Mary probably had similarly mixed motives in giving me a room in the flat in Somers Town she had jjust been assigned by the council. Obviously, I contributed to the rent, but I think she was quite strongly attracted to me too. If the night we spent together there - the first night I ever spent with a girl or a woman - turned into a fiasco, I really don't think that it was because of the shockingly tiny dimensions of my penis (much as the masochist in me would like to believe it was, and brilliantly as Camel has given the scenario graphic form). I think the problem was that I just kept her TALKING ABOUT IT for, if memory serves after nearly forty years, about five and a half hours, between midnight and about six in the morning. It really hurts me to remember this and relate it in such crude and specific language but I do clearly remember that, when I finally got under the blamkets with her juat as the December dawn was beginning to be perceptible beyond the spires of Saint Pancras station, our little dialogue went something like this: "I'm dry...Get up..." "What?" At this point she must have flinched back - hardened proletarian semi-prostitute though she was - ffrom leaving me no choice but to face the crude and ugly physiological facts and had the idea - bless her heart - of giving my sexual pride a refuge by a play on the ambiguity of words: "My throat's dry....Get up...." I could actually feel, myself, that she was painfully dry, though - and anyway, it was practically light outside by then and she had to go to work. What's more, strangely, she seemed to bitterly resent what happened or didnt happen between us that night - and she never returned to live with me in that flat in Somers Town. I was left alone there all through the Christmas and New Year seasons - with the results recounted above.
Anonymous
>>2047 >>2048 >>2049 Can you rewrite this to include the hat? I think all your young fans would like to hear the story with the hat.
Anonymous
Dollsy and Camel are cute a f.
Anonymous
>>2050 Oh sorry, my bad. Here is the improved version: It really hurts me to remember this and relate it in such crude and specific language but I do clearly remember that, when I finally got under the blamkets with her juat as the December dawn was beginning to be perceptible beyond the spires of Saint Pancras station, our little dialogue went something like this: "I'm dry...Get up..." "What?" At this point she must have flinched back - hardened proletarian semi-prostitute though she was - ffrom leaving me no choice but to face the crude and ugly physiological facts and had the idea - bless her heart - of giving my sexual pride a refuge by a play on the ambiguity of words: "My throat's dry....Get up....AND FOR CHRIST'S SAKE TAKE OFF THAT FUCKING FEDORA!"
Anonymous
>>2053 *thunderous applause, such that was heard only at the meetings of the CC with JV Stalin making interventions*
