Christian Yorke

The following short piece was submitted to The Twisted Web by Tony Jones, the talented British novelist and social commentator. The scene involves two lovers of nineteenth century Russian literature who spend a few idle moments debating the work of their heros. 

‘No, I wouldn’t say it’s love. More like a deep appreciation of the Russian masters. I got almost to the end of Crime and Punishment once, at only the second attempt.’

‘So you’re more of a Kafka man?’

‘Don’t be barbaric Derek, he’s not even Russian…’

‘Indeed.’

‘You’re right though in a way. Most decent critics agree that Kafka is much funnier than the Russians. Bit like with Shakespeare or Faulkner, his natural humour constantly  counterweighs and intensifies his overarching sense of lost hope.’

‘I concur. In fact, now you mention it I’d go so far as to assert that his humour also humanizes our own fated intimacy with what is grave by permitting life’s fullest, most actual context to be brought into view even as it points us to an approved method of acceptance.’

‘Not everyone would agree with that analysis old boy.’

‘Oh come off it Richard, The Trial had me chortling more than a few times. Imagine consulting a bed ridden attorney! No wonder Joseph K was knifed to death for no reason.’

‘Hmmmm, I see your point now. Although I don’t mind admitting that the penultimate chapter, In The Cathedral, gave me nightmares. And at the end as K dutifully awaits execution and reflects “Where was the Judge whom he had never seen? Where was the High Court to which he had never penetrated?” A provocative plea by which we sense that K’s suffering may yet extend infinitely.’

‘Yes, if nothing else Kafka had an extraordinary narrative and descriptive skill whilst still bringing to his task a visionary insight, a romantic verve and a grasp of human character that seemed uniquely his own.’

‘Now I must disagree. That sounds as though you are describing Nabokov…’

‘Hey, Dick, chuck us down an ‘ammer!’ demanded a new voice.

Richard peered over the scaffolding to his colleague three floors below. ‘I’m on me fuckin’ tea break you cunt!’

‘Fuck you then, I’m tellin’ the governor…’

Derek rubbed his hard hat and beckoned Richard to sit back down. ‘It’s like something out of Chekhov round here sometimes isn’t it. His later work that is.’

‘And look what happened to him!’

‘Tuberculosis?”

‘Yes, like the lot of them. Except Dostoyevsky. It was emphysema and epilepsy what saw him off.’ explained Richard as he launched a heavy mallet in the general direction of his colleagues who were now watching a rusted cement mixer spin round and round.

I thought that I would share with you a short passage that was cut from Modern Trials, since which time it has been locked in a hard drive. Before I binned it, this section was intended to provide some back story for a minor character called Knudd. He is a sixty something ex-military man with one kidney and the first pacemaker fitted in Norway. His purpose is to illustrate the pleasure, and danger, of diving and ultimately to contribute to a life changing event. I hope that you find it challenging. Here goes…

Isis roared, her decks shook and the sea boiled. Kemnebi’s muscles bulged his lean forearms as he opened her up from the flybridge. This proved too much for Knudd as a lack of focus tipped him over. He lay where he fell, oily puddles sloshing against his face, stinging his eyes. His gaping lips slurped the salty waste, and the vile taste returned him to childhood. 

In memory’s grip he once again felt autumn cold tearing through his thin vest. Misty breath plumed in shallow gasps. Dread had disallowed him time to jump into his boots and, as he fled, sopping undergrowth lacerated his feet. Knudd remembered the carbon sky beyond the gloomy canopy of trees, and the biting wind that iced his face, soothed only by hot tears. Strangely, in those early moments he had felt safe; a sense of peace punctuated only by cracking sticks, the swoosh of heavy grass and the thudding rhythm of footsteps behind. He glanced back more than once, almost falling, but was unable to penetrate the dark shadows. His tiny fists pumped harder, until he realised that soon he would have nothing left. 

Through trees ahead he noticed a swirl of grey light. Moments later, in the clearing, he fell to his knees crying quietly, each breath a trial. Exhaustion had robbed him of even one more step, whatever the consequences. 

His strongest memory of that afternoon was the arrival of his brothers, screaming his name. He remembered rough hands at his throat; the weight of a heavy canister punched into his back; a boot swung forcefully into his face. The  impact was so overwhelming that he slumped forward and lay motionless, cold dew mixing with blood’s iron tang.

His brothers had held him down and poured petrol in his hair and over his face. They took to their task with a shattering frenzy, spit flying as they threatened fire and violence. The thick fluid clung like a viscous mask. A lighter was produced and its flame flickered near Knudd’s eyes. Hopeless, Knudd breathed, swallowing the noxious petrol before vomiting. 

The brothers played together in this way until Knudd was told that the threat to torch him was just a big joke; a bit of high jinx that must remain their secret. Knudd really should have known better. He felt stupid, and angry and horrified in almost equal measure; and the sum of these feelings was gratitude, because although his brothers often teased him in this way, he felt at peace when they eventually ran laughing into the woods.

Back in the present, Knudd remained motionless until Ruben hauled him up.

Flight had observed Knudd’s attention seeking from a distance until he dropped into the pool of verrucas and broken toe nails that always seemed to congregate at the stern. His gaze was cold as he chose not to participate in the nervy chuckles and concerned groans. Flight regarded his recent acquisition as unruly and tasteless; all because Gabriel had needed something to pity (or bully) in the hotel lobby before they all shared a taxi on day one. 

from youtube

Evelyn Waugh is widely acknowledged as one of the greatest novelists of the twentieth century. Although he is known to millions for writing Brideshead Revisited, he devoted much of his early work to romping farce and brutally funny satire. A good example of this is Scoop; an exuberant comedy noir set in Fleet Street (back in the 1930s when it was London’s centre of journalism) and Ishmaelia. 

Before his death in 1966, Waugh gave a number of recorded interviews for the BBC; an institution that he considered then (as indeed now) to be staffed exclusively by self important functionaries. His 1953 appearance on Frankly Speaking caused him such offence that he remained traumatised by the experience for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, the interviews that he gave from 1948 to 1964 are essential listening (or viewing) for anyone requiring a glimpse into the world of a literary heavyweight.

The above animation is based on a small selection of these interviews. If you want more of the same let me know and it shall be arranged, although Mr Tennessee will be unavailable for future productions (as explained below).

Finally, I have been asked to point out that the actor playing Waugh is unexpectedly available for feature length rom-coms or TV crime drama. He can be contacted via The Twisted Web; please feel free to get in touch, his rates are very reasonable. In addition, the animation is in memory of, and dedicated to, Jersey J Tennessee who died in a horrible gardening accident late last week. May the Lord have mercy on his soul.

from youtube

Here at the Twisted Web we love a good read and we love a good movie. In the above animation we combine the two with interesting results.

By pressing PLAY you will meet Christian Yorke’s virtual self. He is dressed for a night out in his private alley where he can often be found reading extracts from his novel (Modern Trials) to tramps, thieves, politicians and military types; in fact anybody who will listen. And boy is he in the mood to read to you right now.

But be warned, the chosen extract is a gritty account of jealousy and violence. Two minor characters behave like hooligans, drink away their sorrows, lament lost love, listen to Bowie and participate in a tragic assault. Yes, it has all the ingredients of classic comedy noir. Go on, push the button and enjoy…

More extracts will follow.

Climate Change-The Shocking Truth

from youtube

I always knew that one day I would be in the movie business. It is difficult to find good quality actors who are willing to work for free so I had to make do with a couple of virtual goons. But it is the artistic integrity that counts.

I hope you enjoy this piece of movie gold as two statesman talk honestly about the most important issue currently facing mankind. It is powerful and humbling to watch respected world leaders with their guards down. The film is based in part on previously unseen archive footage, and on certain eye witness accounts. Although the debate about climate change will rage on, hopefully this film will equip us all with information to make informed decisions about the future of our planet.

I have had Interpol breathing down my neck sice making this so I hope that you find it to be of value.

Please note that the views expressed are not those of the Twisted Web

Residents of a Welsh seaside resort were grief stricken after the “Great Snows of 2010″ claimed two more victims in bizarre and tragic circumstances.

Reports indicate that Brangwen Jones Jr (16) and Einwys Meredith Jones (29), both of Porthmadog, had enjoyed an evening out to celebrate Brangwen’s birthday. Caddoc Jones of the Bombay Balti told police, “The two youngsters dined in our restaurant, that much I remember clearly. Einwys had a fierce thirst on him, and Brangwen was joking with some of our other customers that she’d taken ‘a shit load of skag’ to get back at him. I won’t lie to you, by the time they made it to our basement nightclub those kids were in great spirits. They made a lovely couple they did, and the scuffle with the bouncers when they eventually left us was just the result of a bit of strong booze and a good hot curry.”

Caddoc was the last person to see Brangwen and Einwys alive.

By the time they left Bombay Balti at 3-20 am it had been snowing hard for ten hours. The youngsters only had a three mile walk to their mum’s house, but it seems that in the blizzard they lost their way. It was hours before their bodies were discovered near the beach that each of them is said to have loved “so really very, very much” as children.

Commenting recently the mayor said, “I won’t lie to you, this is a local tragedy. I cannot begin to imagine the suffering of those two young people who had their whole lives in front of them. If I’m honest I expect all of us will applaud their survival instincts. In the final moments they did what any trained soldier would have done. They stripped off in order to share their body heat, which was exactly the right thing to do, except that on this occasion they still froze to death.”

Their mother, Deedee Jones (32), said, “We are deeply saddened, but if we’re honest we’re also seriously proud of how our lovely Brangwen and Einwys tried to save each other in such a creative and caring fashion. I admit that, at first, I was upset that the Porthmadog Globe published the photo of their dead frozen bodies on the front page. But our neighbours, friends and hundreds of well wishers have been so kind that I now agree that its publication was in the public interest.”

The photo is published below. Let it be a lesson to us all…

A stranger handed me a document whilst I was minding my own business outside The Ritz. She was dressed as a traffic enforcer, but I concluded that it must have been a disguise because she didn’t have the simpering, brain-washed attitude of a proper car hating tax grabber. It was obvious that she was very excited as she explained that she had spent two days developing a micro thesis on the medical distinction between “guts” and “balls”.

I attach below her cutting-edge paper, a copy of which she allowed me to keep. I admit that she presented her thoughts in a primitive style but, on reflection, her uneven use of punctuation has a certain impact. Her concluding remarks make uneasy reading, but I’m sure you’ll agree that her teasing peasant’s wit slightly softens the blow.

As we parted she suggested that Tiger Woods (the famous golfer) had “balls” as opposed to “guts”. I suspect that she wasn’t referring to the white dimpled things that Tiger hits around a field for a living. Please read her mini-thesis for yourself and see if you agree. 

GUTS OR BALLS

Ever wondered about
> | Guts or Balls…
>
> There is a medical distinction.   We’ve all heard about people having guts or balls,
> But do you really know the difference between them?    
> In an effort to keep you informed, the definitions are listed below:
>
> GUTS – Is arriving home late after a night out with the boys,
> Being met by your wife with a broom, and having the guts to ask:
> ”Are you still cleaning, or have you just flown in?”
>
> BALLS – Is coming home late after a night out with the boys, smelling of perfume and beer,
> Lipstick on your collar, slapping your wife on the arse and having the balls to say: ”You’re next, fatty.”
>
> I hope this clears up any confusion on the definitions.
>
> Medically speaking, there is no difference in the outcome,
> Since both ultimately result in death .

..Anyone who has seen Life On Mars will know that Manchester was a miserable, deprived shit-hole back in the early seventies.  Then punk happened; and in 1976 the Sex Pistols played at Manchester’s Lesser Free Trade Hall (you can almost taste the tepid pints of mild) watched by Stephen Morrissey, Bernard Sumner, Ian Curtis, Peter Hook (Hooky), Howard Devoto and Pete Shelley who eventually became The Smiths, Warsaw and The Buzzcocks. Tony Wilson was also in the audience that night. He was later to start Factory Records, and it was he, as much as the bands he signed, who helped to transform Manchester; to re-brand it as the home of cutting edge popular culture.

By 1982 Warsaw had become Joy Division and then New Order. They were selling millions of records, but losing thousands under Factory’s idealistic management style (contracts in blood, it’s all about the music etc). It was no time for them to open a nightclub. But they did it anyway.  With a sense of suicidal fatalism Factory and New Order pooled their resources and opened none other than the mighty Hacienda.

And this month, for those who were there, or even for those who missed out, Peter Hook has published a ‘warts and all’, ’spill your guts’ book called The Hacienda: How Not to Run a Nightclub (The Hacienda: How Not to Run a Club: Amazon.co.uk: Peter Hook: Books). And as someone who was there through some of the madness I can tell you that it is a page turning laugh-riot, albeit with an underlying sense of doom.

Hooky takes us on a chronological journey through the highs and lows, the live bands, the ground breaking DJs (who no longer talked over the music and became as famous as the bands), the alcohol fueled nights, the temperance nights, the drugs, gangsters and violence. He also includes revealing extracts from the annual accounts that record the financial catastrophe of one of the biggest clubs on earth being run like a wedding reception that had been gate crashed by the Kray twins, Scarface, Al Capone, Freddie “Fingle’s Fingers” Feanie and Don Corleone.

Before the Hacienda, he and Barney used to “…go to all the regular clubs in Manchester, where the traditional crowd was girls in high heels and boys in white shirts and jackets…” The city had been desperate for something new, and New Order’s US tours had given the lads access to a hip, even alien, world of ideas. Ultimately, the Hacienda was inspired by New York clubs such as Area, The Loft, The Paradise Garden and Danceteria; names that sound like they belong in a Brett Easton Ellis novel. More particularly, the Hacienda was to be “a three dimensional manifestation of Factory Records.” A lofty ambition that epitomised Tony Wilson’s sense of history. The kind of ambition that torches fortunes.

In terms of musical credentials the Hacienda became known for featuring new bands before they became famous (for which read before they became too expensive). Amongst others, the Hacienda played host to Cabaret Voltaire, Orange Juice, Teardrop Explodes, Culture Club, New Order, Echo and the Bunnymen, Bauhaus, Big Country, Thomas Dolby, Kurtis Blow, Eurythmics, Madonna, John Cale, The Smiths, The Fall, Primal Scream, The Happy Mondays and The Stone Roses.

That’s an impressive roster for any nightclub, but the Hacienda is probably even better known for championing the phenomenon known as Acid House. This was a sub-genre of house music developed in Chicago. The music used repetitive trance-like grooves, often with short vocal samples as opposed to traditional song lyrics. I remember standing on the speakers shouting “Aceeeed!” over and over, waving my arms like a maniac with up to 2,400 other sweating maniacs. It might sound crazy now. Because it was. But it worked, so don’t judge!

I was going to the Hacienda from 1987 to 1991 (as a very, very young man). We’d pile down Manchester on Thursdays after school. The queues down Whitworth Street outside the Hacienda are now the stuff of legend. From time to time Hooky worked the door. Unfortunately, by 1991 there was trouble brewing; stabbings and serious gang violence. Hooky explains that one night “A couple have been slapped, one punched, one beaten up, and we’ve had a few women complaining that what started as a ‘drug search’ ended with a bouncer’s hand down their knickers.” On a similar night Hooky told Anton (the bar manager) to bring him a treble vodka and orange every twenty minutes. Later, as the pubs emptied and spilled across to the Hacienda one of the bouncers was stabbed in the head. As the cops arrived Hooky grabbed Anton and changed his order to a rock hard vodka every ten minutes. The club was in serious bother. 

Hooky reports that 1988 to 1990 was the Hacienda’s wildest period, but that from 1991 the club was in terminal decline. Here’s an extract:

By now the Haçienda’s wildest period, from 1988 to 1990, was well behind us; looking at the accounts for the years that followed, the profits came down very gradually by about 10 to 15 per cent per year. As Manchester had got hipper, more clubs had opened and investment came into the city. In some ways the Haçienda became a victim of its own success: people we’d drawn to the area opened their own places, which took our customers and made us look old-fashioned. And, because of our ongoing financial dire straits, we couldn’t afford to fully renovate the club to keep up with the times.

 Furthermore, like punk before it, acid house lost something as it got older: the innocence of nobody knowing the rules, or even if there were any. That initial explosion of ecstasy – coupled with the music – had revolutionized the world. Everything that followed could only be an imitation.

Despite all this, though – despite the fights among gangsters, and trouble with the police – some nights made us forget it all. It was like London during the blitz, or the band playing on the bridge of the Titanic as the ship sank. We partied to spite fate. No matter how badly some people behaved, they couldn’t completely stop the great bits.

Even so, the comedian Keith Allen always said to me that you know you’ve got a drug problem when you feel like you’re a god when you’re not on it. And that was us: we had a problem. We were still off our heads. When the Haçienda celebrated its tenth anniversary, in May 1992, we built a bridge over the canal to a purpose-built Haçienda fairground.

The event cost us £10,000. We’d intended to use that money to fund a Haçienda compilation CD, but Rob spent it on this fairground and renting rides, thinking we’d get the money back on the door. My mate Cormac ran the dodgems and handled the announcing: ‘You want it to go faster? Put your arms up,’ etc., etc. At one point he boomed into the microphone: ‘OK. All of you who are on an E, I want you off of these dodgems right now!’ Exodus. Nearly every car got vacated. Only Manchester’s Lord Mayor and his deputy were left, sat right in the middle of the ride in a car of their own.

Criminals showed up every night, fighting, preening and jockeying for position. Other clubs were safer because all the gang members were in ours.

There were four corners under the Haçienda balcony and each belonged to a gang: Salford young and Salford old, Wythenshawe, Cheetham Hill and Gooch. They each took their own little section and if an opposing-gang member walked into the wrong corner it would really go off. Just about the only people allowed to move freely around the club were the musicians: me, Barney, the Mondays and the Roses.

Even innocent punters would get a slap if they staggered in by mistake and this became one of our bugbears: some student would get a bit pissed, sit in the wrong corner, get a slap (if he was lucky), and then – quite rightly – complain.

In a funny way, the Haçienda brought working-class crime to a different segment of society. It spread out of our doors right around Manchester.

Gangs terrorized everybody. The honeymoon period being by now well and truly over, there were non-stop full-on violent episodes and the mood of the club – and of the entire scene – went downhill.

We were surrounded by a fortune we couldn’t keep and thugs we couldn’t control. When a gangster from the Salford lot celebrated at the club one night Ang received a shock: he walked into her back area, a bottle of champagne in hand, looked around and told her, ‘One day I’ll be telling my son that this is his to inherit.’ It made her wonder how much power the gangs truly had over us, or at least how much they thought they had.

The Hacienda closed in 1997. By then it had lost a fortune for its owners, but in the process become an iconic venue. It is now a block of flats, but as Tony Wilson famously said, “Some people are here to make money, whilst others are here to make history.”

If you you are interested in popular culture, and are up for a funny, honest book written by a man who bears the scars then get yourself a copy of Peter Hook’s new book: you’ll love it.

CY NOTE: Herewith the next instalment of Funk Moonbeam’s rock n roll road odyssey, transcribed from original manuscripts.

I hadn’t slept for three days straight by the time I found Bourg-St-Pierre in search of Heidi. The air is so thin at this altitude that I almost drove the Red Shark into the packs of St Bernards roaming freely down the lanes. I was fresh out of ether, painkillers and deodorant and so had no option but to see off the Grey Goose that I’d recently sourced from from an unattended liquor wagon. The bats were back in my vision and every time I thought of Ace all I could see was Tiff’s jaundiced eyes bursting from their sockets as he drilled her over my mixing desk. I wished that I’d used the baseball bat on him (instead of attacking him with a lampshade), but that was all history now.

My various wounds were twistin me outta shape when I pulled up at the address that the Samoan attorney had given me from his jail cell. God I was missin that big bastard more than I’d ever imagined possible. Although it was meant to be July I was shakin like a rattlesnake’s tail as I knocked on Heidi’s door, well aware that this was my last chance to straighten myself out with an access all areas makeover.

Holy Jesus, when Heidi opened the door I was rendered blind and mute for over a minute by her powerful dimensions. During that agonising silence she was clearly judging me (wide eyes, hand to mouth, hand covering nose etc) but luckily she had yet to know me long enough to hate me. Things got more regular when I managed to say (as advised) that the Samoan had sent me. This was a knockout move. Heidi giggled, and then we laughed a bit about my stained jogging pants (don’t ask how I came by them bastards), my blood caked fingers, the half empty magnum of Grey Goose and the tears that wouldn’t stop pouring out of me.

By the time she felt confident enough to let me in her basement apartment I was craving a deep snort of ether more than at any previous point in my life. Instead of doing the decent thing, Heidi shepherded me into her miniature kitchen. She insisted on boiling me up a toxic brew of teas from the orient. I noticed the microwave clock. It was early. Heidi wore a silk Kimono of a quality rarely seen in Switzerland. Her blond hair was the equal even of Ace’s glorious mane and for the first time I realised that I was in the hands of a master. Standing nose to nose in that cramped space I spilled my guts about the band, how I had to make peace with Ace and Tiff and get to the Ethereal festival in Rome where we could showcase my album (Magnolia Glock) and hit the big time. Heidi had heard it all before a million times. I was not the first lost soul rock rebel to have crossed her threshold in search of salvation. She clasped my face, our foreheads touched. I was in and out of a trance, confessing all my sins, cleansing my mind before this powerful nineteen year old guru.

Then, in a moment of maximum connection she hit me with the following:

“Superstar, where you from, how’s it going? I know you, gotta clue what you’re doing? You can play brand new to all the other chicks out here but I know what you are, what you are, baby.

Look at you, gettin more than just re-up baby, you got all the puppets with their strings up; fakin like a good one, but I call ‘em like I see ‘em. I know what you are, what you are, baby.”

I was on my knees, head in hands; how could she know me so thoroughly after only an hour or two of intense head holding? Then she continued with the ultimate truth.

“Womaniser! Woman-womaniser. You’re a womaniser. Oh, womaniser. Oh you’re a womaniser, you, you, you are. You, you, you are! Womaniser, womaniser, womaniser!”

I was terrified. What was she accusin me of? Holy shit, would I ever leave this dark place? Heidi’s face softened.

“You got me goin. you’re oh-so charmin. But I can’t do it, u womaniser.”

I begged Heidi to forgive me of whatever it was she knew I was guilty of. I begged her to lay her healin hands on me, just like the Samoan had said she would.

“Daddy-O,” continued Heidi after turning on the stereo (Guns n’ Roses) so loud that she was shoutin, “you got the swagger of a champion. Too bad for you, just can’t find the right companion. I guess when you have one too many, makes it hard. Could be easy. Who you are, that’s who you are baby.”

This reference to me bein a champion got my hopes up, I don’t mind admittin that much, but Heidi’s cruel mind play took a dark twist.

“Lollipop, must mistake me; you’re a sucker to think that I would be a victim not another. Say it, play it how you wanna. But no way I’m ever gonna fall for you, never you, baby.”

Things were movin fast. All the drug abuse and sleep starvation had me trippin out like an adrenochrome fiend. I was kissin Heidi’s feet and legs as Welcome to the Jungle rocked the joint. I was screaming that I didn’t plan to make Heidi my victim, that I loved Ace La Rouge for the sake of all that is holy. The hard stone floor hurt my fists as I beat it.

“Maybe if we lived in different worlds (womaniser, womaniser, WOMANISER) it would be all good, and maybe I could be ya girl. But I can’t…”

Then Heidi left me as I writhed on that cold kitchen floor amongst rotting schnitzel, dog food and cat litter.

I almost certainly blacked out, believing that the Samoan had let me down for the first time. Begging Heidi to straighten me out with a hardcore makeover so I could get the band back together and find eternal happiness had failed. It was dark when my eyes opened. Red light bulbs transformed the flat into a vision of hell and the black walls ran with blood. A glitter ball cast strange shapes, the place reeked of lavender or lillies and through all this strode Heidi, dressed as I had never imagined possible.

She was now at least six foot five in thigh high black leather stack heeled military boots. Only her eyes and mouth were visible beneath the leather premium locking slave hood with snap on leather gag. Other that that she was naked except for the locking spreader bars between her ankles and what looked like a chest restraint belt, leather bicep arm binders with opera gloves, a zippered eyeless (total sensory deprivation) hood, a stainless steel anal hook, Derby-style handcuffs, a steel cock and balls shackle and a heavy steel collar with attached cuffs; all of which was slung her her shoulder and presumably for my benefit.

I jumped to my feet and made for the door. It was tripple bolted. The stereo was pumping out Megadeth. And Heidi came for me (no small achievement in those spreaders!), pointing to an open door…

CY footnote: I am now recovering from the above revelations. Once my strength returns I will transcribe the next part of Funk’s mangled manuscript notes. See you next time.