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CALLASSA CALLASSA
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The Lizzie Starks Band
Rock n’Roll Forever
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Written for my darling and the promise I made is most sincere. What promise?
My girlfriend Ursula will join us for fun!
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The Lizzie Starks Band
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Lizzie Starks. lead vocals
Terry ‘Fatty’ Culzean. lead guitar
Pete Kenilworth. bass guitar, keyboard
Balthazaar Blackness. drums, percussion
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Extract No. III
The Gig at the Old Lantern
Complete Pandemonium
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A Short Lead In of Womanly Flavour
(Doesn’t everything begin this way?)
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I wanted to turn over, for darling doll Philip to pleasure (fuck) me from behind, to bury my face in the softness of the pillows. There, for my sound to become muted. Soon, he would be able to fulfill me, this time with more probing exploration.
I would help make it last. First, he would give me a palpating kiss inside my sticky gateway that leads all the way to the paradise garden. A song was waiting to be written, the words ready for excitement to work them all loose and for me to run and catch them. My stream was a flow of energy moving from one exotic plant to the next. Well, something like that, a sticky streak, careful not to catch butterflies, a taste that was all my own. A boosting from my intimate brew.
Lizzie Starks
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The Gig Revisited
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Remember the first gig ended in complete turmoil thanks to me? Anyway, the evening of evenings had arrived for the Lizzie Starks Band. Here at the Old Lantern, the most notorious Hampsters were out in force. There was and not in any kind of order and I shall list them; Harry the Tash Mulett (local mafia). Our manager, Cedric Gookings, late of HMP Strangeways. Cyril the Don King, who is landlord of the pub and literal crime lord. Rennerd from the scrapyard, alias Big fucking Dong. Fred Lod. Pink Karty, Car Battery. President Lincoln. Freddy the Fart. Salt Lick Sykes. Wooden Leg Lady. Pill the Ock. Big Slit. The Shite Brothers. Ben ‘Benner’ Trilling (Satanic taxi driver). Ursula ‘The Devil’ Lawrence (my passion sweet lesbiana and besides being a Satanist there’s lots to say about her, but for another time. Lovely luscious lover). Puncher. The Robertshaw Sisters (Virtue nil). Tracy Clapper. The Three Witches. Saint Basil. Keesus Jreist. Fricker The Flick Shifty Eyed Twat. Bent Filth Carson. The CID. The Queen Mother’s Arse. Mina Mazzini ** (see note). The Posh (who shouldn’t be fucking here really). Maisie ‘Herpes’ Bailey. Adolph Hitler’s Nightmare (terrible). Shag Me Hard in the Arse Jackson. Doing Time with a Seriel Killer (Insomnia). Insurance Rip Off Shyster Fuck Bag. Riar Deer. Stupid Old Twat. Benner’s Dad. Dog Face Lil (running saliva). After Birth. Stop Talking to My Arse Cuthbert (the most stupid cunt ever). Stabber. Stabber’s Dad. Shit Face. Bunt Like A Cucket. The Electrodes With Teeth. Desperate Daisy. Doley Never Worked a Day in his Fucking Life. Golf Stick Dongler. Bick Sastard. Fancy Hitter. Never Stop Fucking Me Mary. Milva (Italian). Mary’s friends. Slack Twat with Licking. The Lezzers. Cannibal’s Fetish. Fang. Runt The Perv. Vaginal Infection with Stink. Permed Percy (the description-less fucker). Went To University And Got Kicked Out Smithy. The Stash. Tranny’s Parents. Bleeder. Butchered His Dad Jessop. 1915. Pissy. Credit Card Fraud. Blow Up Doll. Mog Deat. The Merry Wanking Window Cleaner. Dick Pox. Loner Meeza. Useless Piece of Shite Dawson. Boring Bastard Yawn. Implants (huge). Nun (give me a break). Rear Gunner (literally, where it hurts, sometimes). Stinker. Lock Beedan (Who?). Reginald Kray Lookalike. Vas Legas (has flashing lights over the fireplace in his house). Diana Dors Lookalike. Pissing Hormones Like Crazy. Hairy Assed Tracy Who Shows Everybody. China Chan ‘The Hit Man’. Work Me Till I Cum. Shag Face. Worst Bastard In The World. The CIA (house with blinds). Himler Ran The Fuck Away From Me. ‘Paper Cut Out In Bedroom’ Farsely (stupid cunt). Corpse. The FBI. Uterus. Wank ‘Country and Western’ Wilson. Gas Chamber. Lance Shirt Lifter And Do it Anywhere. The list was not endless.
Mina Mazzini, I didn’t want to mention her with the others but anyway to fuck her on the seas of lesbiana would be the finest thing ever. Oh, a mere thought of the woman makes me throb and perspire. Just thought I would mention it. Trar, lar, lar, lar…..
News I can howl here; We are to give up the Royal Enfields (bikes), jackets and all. It’s an order. There is a truck comng to collect them on Wednesday. We are to have a new image, I mean completely new, as we are now officially and according to Gooky, a band from the nineteen sixties, complete with stuff; car (American), clothes, hair, attitude, you name it. Pete said he wouldn’t give up his bike without a fight and Gooky promised him in no uncertain terms that he would be handcuffed to it when it went into the crusher on Wednesday afternoon.
So, anyway, dressed in my tight black stretch nylon body stocking, I had spent a long three hours humping the gear from the store in the Lantern’s tap room, then to where it was supposed to go on the stage. I was trying to stay dust-free. Fatty was useless with stage fright, which meant he was suffering from diarrhea again. The whole street would be blogged up, believe me you can’t dump a hundredweight of human cargo into the pipes. Where was I? Oh, Bad Pete was as high as a kite on speed and Blackie (our drummer remember) only turned up at the last minute. There were too many beady eyes watching what was happening. Actually it would have been better to have let someone else arrange all the gear. Some-one who knew what they were doing which was why no one had been asked. Volley of Shots were also asking questions and needing answers. Their technology was like NASA compared to that of our Band, but it couldn’t play rock n’roll, could it? Huh. Somebody had nicked one of the mike stands but thankfully there was a spare.
“When does it start, Lizzie?”
It was Mad Jack’s daughter, Maisie Bailey. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked.
“As soon as Pete’s ready,” I told her.
The lights were working and their effect was better than last time, thanks to the suggestions from Volley of Shots, who’d brought them along.
“He’s spewing up real bad in the bog.” Maisie had bawled and in reference to Pete, while I was adding finishing touches to the set.
“Is he?” Go fetch him, will you.”
“Sure.”
No one had believed that there was going to be an electric chair as part of the stage act until it turned up earlier in the day. Would you fucking believe it? REally, I mean, would you? Loner Meezer, the local ‘honourable profession’ carpenter had put one together without a diagram. It looked to be made of smooth, polished wood and was a bit too realistic, if you ask me. He hadn’t understood that electricity wasn’t needed. So he could take the fucking car batteries back home. He did leave one at the request of Mad Jack Bailey who, unbelievably, wanted to connect it up. There was a message erected at the back of the chair so it could be seen above the head of ‘the convict’. It read ‘Do not go softly’. It was a strange statement and I hadn’t really absorbed it. There was more to Loner Meezer than met the eye, obviously, but exactly what was not a question worth finding the answer to. Janet Rawlings, the blond and pretty girl from No. 6 Fawcet Street, who was supposed to have volunteered for the part didn’t know that the battery was to be connected. She owned a leather thong and while wearing it, was supposed to be dragged on stage covered in baked beans. The sparks that were to erupt and the flashing lights were an ‘interesting’ added visual effect and thanks mostly to Volley of Shots. They were using words like surrealism, multi-dimension and cosmic catastrophe. No one knew what the fuck they were talking about, including me. Somebody had suggested that Janet have false wings attached to her back so that an angel would be going to old sparky. Weird what people think of. Janet had a good scream and had been offered three hundred quid by Gooky if she pissed herself when the current was ‘switched on’. Unbeknown to her, when it really was switched on Gooky would be winning his bet. There was a false machine gun that had been loaned by Saint Basil. It was supposed to fire balls of red slosh. It did, real hard, but whoever was going to be shot to death by it wouldn’t be too pleased. Needless to say the whole thing was being anticipated with impatience. The story had got out. Where was Janet? Importantly, where was the band?
Maisie Bailey had started shouting at the top of her voice,
“There’s a bus load of Millwall supporters outside. The fuckers are wanting to come in.”
This was bad. There was no way they could be allowed in, not with the recording in progress. The place would become one big war zone. Even without fights the atmosphere wouldn’t be right.
It was apparent to me that the Hampsters who’d been watching me set up the gear were arming themselves. There were knives and coshes being passed around. Weird Wank Wilson, the unbearable country and western freak was acting like there was going to be an invasion. Why tonight of all nights? Surely the Millwall FC bunch wouldn’t come in?
They didn’t know what they were facing. Mad Jack Bailey was walking toward the bar. There was an added atmosphere now. It was one very awkward to define. Mad Jack always carried a gun. Any qualms about darling Philip not being here for the show were leaving quickly by the nearest exit. Thankfully my dearest hetero-suck boy was safely tucked up at home. Bless him.
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Pete, Fatty and Blackie had emerged at more or less the allotted time. Fatty had been drinking something white and there were residues of it around his mouth and down his front. The decision to begin heavy and stay that way felt right. This, together with the special effects to be, would fill up the space in such a way that it would explode. This was what was needed. Well, I thought so.
Just to hurry things along a little, when we began, the opening number, ‘Jeanie with the long legs’, had gone down an absolute treat. The bass guitar riff that Pete had improved on was brilliant. It showed in the faces of the audience. There was much happening. There had been bets being taken and Janet thought it was all to do with whether she’d actually go through with the act. Shakespearean dramas and all, not that I knew shit about them. It was to do with how the pretty blond would respond when the current was switched on, whether she would do a number one, number two, or both. There was money to be made. It was all adding to the unbelievably powerful presence of the Lizzie Starks Band. I sailed into ‘Stars across the sky’, my favourite song, in a higher key and sang it more quickly. The audience loved this because they’d heard it before done differently. Loner Meeza (remember who’d brought the batteries and chair) was doing too much creeping around people’s feet with wires in his hand. He would be told to get the fuck lost by Volley of Shots. That or hit with one of the whips that were waiting for Janet’s appearance. If she’d not taken to legging it home. Personally I would have. There were dancers arranged at the front of the stage and slightly below the Band. The Robertshaw sisters, local whores, had volunteered themselves. What they were doing fitted more to what they were good at, being almost stripped naked and writhing away.
The third number was ‘Lone Lizzie’ and this was a song about me growing up in Hamp. It was a Hells Angel’s song (now defunct but would soon find a new face). The song contained a drum solo. Judging by Blackie’s performing it would raise the roof. There were shouts with laughter and applause last time the number was introduced because Blackie lost a drumstick.
This was what rock music really meant to be. It was boiling hot, wet and loud as Hell. It was bursting the seams and all the energy was pouring out (a good amount from me, I say). There were the almost naked bodies of the wriggling Robertshaw sisters. Harry Mulett was giving it the thumbs up. So was Gooky, who had a lot invested in this. The lights were making their faces flash with red and yellow colour.
When ‘Lone Lizzie’ came to an end there was a mixture of voices so loud they made the equipment seem impotent. They loved this. I was at my best. There was a mastery over the art form hitherto not shown in my voice. The lead up to this had been just right.
It had to have been because it couldn’t be any better.
Fatty yanked the cover from the electric chair amidst screams and gasps. At the same time our song ‘Bad Baby’ began. This, by far the heaviest the band could produce. It had to be kept together. The lyrics be heard over the bass, drums and guitar. Not easy for me, but when Pete’s bass stopped, the intensity waned. He was going to drag thong-clad Janet toward the electric chair. He darted off, laughing, an insane look in his eyes. It was awkward because this was happening to the side of me. Judging by the audience response, it was a fantastic scene emerging. She, covered in beans and no doubt being whipped hard, too hard by Pete. She was supposed to fall to the floor begging for mercy. She would be given none. Harry Mulett was forcing his way to the front. So was Gooky and Mad Jack Bailey too. She was soon in the chair, being strapped hand and foot. Now there was supposed to be a silence of the band. Only to erupt when she was playing dead amidst massive explosions of white light. The audience were going wild. They were acting crazy. Not that they weren’t already.
The electricity had been switched on and it was too much to resist. I had to turn my full attention toward the spectacle. What I saw made me panic, really it did. Janet was vibrating, a look of agony mixed with something else on her face. She was salivating and it was obvious that whoever had bet on the number one and two would be going home with money in their pockets. It wasn’t this that smelled, there was something burning. Loner Meeza was nodding and grinning like a Cheshire cat. Turn the bleeding thing off, somebody bawled at him. He was in no hurry. It had to be continued as though there were no problems. Hopefully Loner would turn Janet off and the band could continue. It was me who made the decision to continue, what the Hell. Janet would be unstrapped and carted off by Loner, who was supposed to creep on, wearing a black cloak. He wasn’t he was wearing a red one. Stupid idiot.
The continuing song was ‘Hampster’. Like the one previous to the ‘electric act’ it began heavy, and so in fashion of the true. This was my long vocal piece. Janet was being dragged away. She was unconscious., her head slumped sideways. Hopefully she would be placed in the hands of someone else. Loner would be fondling her. Angela the vet’s assistant had been asked to take a responsibility for Janet. But not told why.
I was diving in to my vocal riff. ‘Hampster’ was a song intended to be sung in the style of Mick Jagger. It was difficult for that because I was more akin to Robert Plant in style and preference, a female version, of course, a Mina Mazzini clone, if ever that were possible. Not to forget the song’s delivery and lots more. No matter. The Lizzie Starks Band lead singer was a mistress of the art. I was supercharged.
The next number was to be ‘Mother Hamp’. Fatty was supposed to spray the audience with red slosh, but had been told that if he did he would be inviting murder. Mad Jack could be seen close to the front so the machine gunning was absolutely out of the question. After ‘Mother Hamp’ had begun there was a loud crash from the front. The doors had been bashed open. The Millwallers were on their way in. Surely they would have been told to stay the fuck out and taken heed? Whether they had nor not was unimportant because they were streaming in. Suicide squad or what. It was the music that had made them stray. They wanted in on the action. The only problem was that the action had now stopped because people were turning away from the band and toward the front of the tap room where the Millwallers were assembling. This was bad. It was very bad. The number came to it’s end, somewhat impotent. A good time for an interval. There wasn’t one scheduled but if there were beer glasses going to fly, then best be off the stage. Pete, Fatty and Blackie had got the message. Volley of Shots were looking bewildered. They were turning their equipment in the direction that most were now facing, the dreaded football supporters. Then expectedly, the fighting began. Perhaps they’d record this too, was my thought while running like Hell for cover behind the speakers. Bar fights were dangerous. Too much glass. The wild west was here. Throw in some Vietnam too. Where?
Mad Jack Bailey already looked to have killed somebody. There was a buz cut youth lying crumpled at his feet. Jack’s foot was stamping on his head. There were three Hampsters watching his back, all three brandishing coshes. Jack took another youth out with a blow from his elbow. The youth had come barging through. Everyone was fighting. There were golf clubs making swishing sounds then dull thuds as they landed on sculls. There was broken teeth, noses, legs and arms almost immediately seen. I’m not kidding, really it’s true. Hampsters knew how to fight, Yorkshire lads born and bred. They would be cleaning up later for Cyril. Meanwhile there was a girl who was tempting the Robertshaw sisters. Julie Robertshaw grabbed the girl’s hair while the others set into her with fists and combs. The Romans would have learned something here. It was all being recorded by Volley of Shots who, now positioned behind the bar, and were looking pleased. Hopefully they would stay alive. Ther was no guarantee of that. A real heavyweight seemed to be getting the better of Benner Trilling (the Satanic taxi driver) until Benner coshed him in the face. Then the heavyweight took another from Tracy Clapper, who was Benner’s girlfriend of the week. The din was overwhelming in ways the music hadn’t been. Janet, still covered in beans was sitting up and being shielded by Angela. The girl was alive. She was looking absolutely terrible.
The Millwallers were scattering. It hadn’t taken long. Most who hadn’t been beaten unconscious and worse were making for the door. Of course, the fight wouldn’t end here. The bus would be smashed up and likely set alight with them inside. It wasn’t the first time this kind of thing had transpired. Unless someone was actually killed, the cops wouldn’t care less. It was more than likely the Millwallers had been causing mayhem wherever it was they’d come from. Likely Leeds or Manchester United. Lucky they’d gotten out of Leeds at all.
There were bodies on the floor amid upturned tables and shattered glass. There were demoniacal looks on Hampster’s faces. The bodies would have to be dragged out and thrown against the bus for their own to attend. Judging by the sight there would be visits to the hospital for some, if not all. There was blood splattered across the speakers. Mad Jack was still going at it hammer and tongs. He never stopped when they went down, didn’t Jack. There was a dull sucking sound when he kicked a body hard as Hell in the face.
“We get all the fuckers?” was what someone was bawling. It sounded like Billy ‘The Scrap’ who was a prize fighter of note. He had the loudest voice among many who were shouting. Cyril the landlord was looking extremely pissed off. There would be no more of the Lizzie Starks Band tonight. One of The Volley of Shots team was nodding and laughing. He was obviously pleased by it all. A good gig. Plenty of reality. Mad Jack Bailey was now holding somebody up against the wall. He was behind President Lincoln on a frenzied kicking stint. Lock Beedan and Car Battery were behind him but they were looting pockets. CIA looked to be handing out darts, underhand, secretive stuff.
“Fucking hooligans.”
It was Angela the Vet’s assistant dealing with Jenet. She was crouching. “Fucking weirdos, too,” she said, “You see what they did to the girl? Have you seen her?”
“I didn’t know anything about it,” I told her. “It was Loner Meeza. He was seeing to all that. Honestly, it was him.”
“You’re all fucking insane,” she said bitterly. “It’s like the wild west with fucking psychos thrown in.”
“Sorry Angie, really.”
“Sure you fucking are.”
“I’m going to see Philip. I’m out of here. I’d do the same if I were you.”
I had to negotiate my way by taking two detours. Both meant possible Millwallers on route. This was why I had the phony machine gun. It looked real so would likely be the ideal. Out through the rear via the gent’s toilets was the best, I’d decided. There were unconscious bodies. Some were groaning. It was worse than I’d assumed. Angie was correct. It was crazy. It was human. Therefore and by necessity, it would be crazy. It was tempting to use the gun on one of the unconscious just to test if it worked. There wasn’t time.
It had been almost impossible for me to get through the gents and out of the door because it had been where the girls who’d been watching the band had gone to be safe from the Third World War. Sensible.
I was outside and at the rear of the pub. This was a dangerous place because it would be where someone could be hiding and wanting to take opportune vengeance. The best thing to do was to leg it down Fawcet Street, thus avoiding the bus. There was fighting still taking place. Multiple head buts being delivered, fists and elbows driving themselves home. The cops were coming up Percy Street, lights flashing and sirens blazing. Best not be seen carrying what looked like a heavy duty machine gun. Although tame and well paid off by Cyril, the cops might be intimidated. I slung the gun into the first alley and carried on walking. The cop car didn’t slow. There was another coming behind, likely ambulances too, because they were surely needed. Though it was certain no one from Hamp would have called them.
After the cops had passed, reinforcements in the shape of Old Tommy and his Alsatian came legging it up the road. Him trying to keep up with the dog. The contrast now, in its nightly solitude and quiet was an epic contrast to where I’d been and fled from. Once at the end of Fawcet Street, it was only around the corner to darling Philip’s house. What would he have thought? To seeing Mad Jack Bailey coshing and elbowing people to near death? The faces that were smashed and bleeding? The broken limbs? The delight taken in breaking them? Not to forget the humiliation of Janet Rawlings, the acrid smell and smoke coming from her and not to forget other bodily substances? Somewhere there had been live rock music. It was Lizzie Starks finest hour.
The evening in its every facet had been one continuous uproar.
Philip’s downstairs lights were on and they were shining brightly. I needed a real passion blast, I needed a fabulous fuck, and that was how it was going to be after sitting astride his face for as long as I could hold it. If he didn’t answer the door I would kick it down. And I had news, Ursula my darling Lickey Loo Lover would be joinng us for the threesome of the century. She said about midnight, when the owls were out and a hootin, when she was turned on the most. And with that thought . . . . . . .
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Extract No. IV. Yes! Would you believe!
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Index. CALLASSA transgender.london
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Lizzie Starks Band Extract No. II
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Lizzie Starks Band . Extract. No. I
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Contact Fabulous Baby on Facebook
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CALLASSA CALLASSA
The Lizzie Starks Band
Extract No. III
The Gig at the Old Lantern
Complete Pandemonium
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