Chapter One

It was with a hopeless sense of the inevitable that I read how I was required to submit my life to an academic exercise. I have lived disordered from my earliest years and the chaos that came out of my horribalised personality was, to say the least, chaotic. How can I list all the issues, crimes, bundles and shouts that the disorder led to? How can I chronicle all those attempts at art, art to bind the disorder into a marvellous order, a lyrical attempt at subduing madness, that I committed myself to in an attempt to make a brave face of the messed formidablness of it all!? For what have I always been if not mad? Madness is the true right of disorder, and madman I am to try for order. Here, I am doing it again, and it is monstrous. The disordered personality dismantled to crook an un- cartilaged knee at the fanny : fancy order!

From all the crimes, and rites, and sacrifices, and obsessionalities of them all, and rituals (for thwacked madmen always go for balling rituals of ordering the disordered) but from which crimes and rites and sacrifices shall I select the most salient, the most sensational, the most bloody and absurd to substantiate the text herein?

There was Hannah who died by the sword, my sword. There was her absurd boyfriend who fell down a precipice. There was Fred the dog that drowned under mysterious circumstances out walking with a fellow who resembled me. There were cats that fell into boiling waters. P. C. Willis of the cheery laugh and alcohol-cherry cheeks who died under a speeding car driven by me under the influence of cherry-cheeked alcohol (irony there and personification). Then there were the spree crimes – the glancing blow to the fellow who poked his face too near mine in the pub. Mustn’t forget terrorising my sister and mother. The joke that got my father two fractured ribs. I have always been at it, and now, driven by a wish to be normal, I’m submitting aberrated pages that pretend I have something to say about order and disorder. What I can state loud and clear is one is longer and one is shorter. And that sums it up about me, too. I have been disordered far longer than I have been ordered. I’d sell you short if I didn’t make that as plain as a long fall from a top floor on to a thumping great strip of reinforced concrete!

I feel I am running out of steam and my head is already on the block because when it is understood that none of this is fucking fiction, I truly believe my luck will run out and the boys in blue with machine guns will pay me a speedy visit. Indeed, how have I got away with it up till now? You may well ask.


Chapter Two

Ordering the disorder I want to tell you about how I got away with killing Lucy and Joe. I stalked that pair of lechers and noticed they had one predominant and predominating vice – drunkenness. Now out of drunkenness are born ill attention, lechery and acid stomach…so I waited for the first and second, those after whiskey battery. They were humping before swooning in the back of their car. Ill attention had led the mutters to leave the doors unlocked. I was in New York and had gotten hold of a gun and six rubies. The jewels made it to their temples, only two, and the rest I sank into the genitals. It was a rich mess, and I’ll always remember boarding that Virgin with aluminium wings that brought me safely back to the land of hope and glory. Only it isn’t. In fact, I blame the grey isles set in iron-lady seas for never helping me order the disorder. As for Richard Brainclot or Bratson, I know what I’d do with his bollocks if I had them on a silver-and-gold plate. That virgin cock-pheasant of Oxfordshire working-class biewllocks!

Chapter Three

I got a lot of psychiatric treatment when I was in the loony bin but none of it stuck. The doctors loved to delve and make me see sense in senselessness, that is order in disorder, but in the end it was the British Isles with their grim rules, their unfriendly people, their sexless women, and their political correctness, that made me understand the overwhelming justice of disorder. It was a poke in the eye to everything British, and I hated the eye.

Chapter Four

I noticed early on that if you write well enough, the simple folk who read your drivel will love you to bits. I remember way back in 1977 there was the All London Silver Jubilee Literary Competition. I had just murdered Katharine, a bint I loved to hate, and feeling depressed I wrote “The Nowhere Knife” (a poem). That long piece of trumped-up prose even had a guy committing suicide in the Thames in it but guess what? It was singled out and I had to go to a grim hall and give a public reading along with four other prize charlies. When I read about the suicider not being able to greet anyone, the audience burst into chuckles. I wanted to be in America with a machine gun at that point. There was a literary agent working just off of the cross, the Charing Cross, who spoke to me about my great poetic gifts and asked if I (this is MONSTROUS – thought I’d remind you) had anything else to offer. I had a novel ready – all about the sliced-up Kathy, and I said I’d pop it in. I did pop in but I didn’t pop IT in, sexual allusion here, and feeling disordered I failed to deliver what she thought she’d ordered. She looked at me oddly. I was remiss. I only threw a chair at her, knocking her sideways out of her seat. When she went down I couldn’t resist making off with her knickers. I left her there, sitting up, shrieking something about a bastard. If she’d called me a knicker-thief, I’d have liked her just a bit but even the most ordered go haywire disordered if you pull their pants off their hairy nethers.

Chapter Five

Seeing the light didn’t come easy but it was when I was dumped in jail in Rome that I suppose I started to come to my senses and realised that the order was simply disorder sliced up and off. I understood that if a castrated prefix was all it took to get manly and ordered, then castrate I would. I knocked those three letters off and it was in Rebibbia that I did it. I’d been arrested for a traffic offence. I’d gone through a red light on my bicycle, and even I realised how foolish I was and the Italian traffic cop was. He punched me in the stomach for giving him the victory salute and that sort of sealed it for me. I couldn’t stomach it and I went for ordering disorder, carriaging miscarriage, possibling impossible, and so on, and so forth, ad infinitum, and nausea.

It is here that I take my leave, a deformative, reformed disorder, ready to receive your order of the incandescent literati. I await with confidence the wait, and the prize, the kingdom, the power, and the glory that shall be mine, and mine alone. My Bible-study group is open to all but will, inevitably, get tricky for some. If you don’t leave, that’s your own facking fault!

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