LARRY O'HARA STARS IN STEREO LOVE

I was feeling very down in the dumps about the slowness with which the world was coming to realise that I, the manly Larry O'Hara, was the most wonderful human being to walk the earth since the first day of creation. On top of this, Paul 'Poland' Rogers just didn't want to have sex with me. Or rather, he preferred to endlessly relive his days as the prison punk, so that all he ever wanted me to do was buy several four packs of Tenants Super and use them to bribe assorted Portsmouth derelicts into gang banging him in the town centre park. On these occasions I'd get to give him a good poke alongside all the down and outs.

Whenever I succeeded in getting my activist chum to roger me, he'd obsessively whisper 'Mandy, Mandy' in my ear. Although it wouldn't be true to say that Poland had never had a regular relationship - he'd often given a pet dog called Rex blow jobs during his adolescence and is inordinately fond of sheep - nevertheless, when Mandy seduced Poland in 1990 it was the first time he'd ever slept with a woman. After Mandy gave him the Big E six weeks later, Poland realised that killing off ninety-five per cent of the population was the only way of saving our marvellous green planet, the earth, from the submen. Poland hadn't had sex with a chick since Mandy left him, he doesn't want to risk getting one the vile things pregnant.

Wednesday seemed like just another routine day in London. I'd concealed myself in a pub doorway to do some investigative research by observing the punters going into Huysmans, a radical bookshop in Kings X. To help pass the time I fondled my parts. After a five hours stint pressed against the lintel of The Flying Scotsman's doorway - during this interlude I gave a dozen pissed Glaswegians oral to keep them off my back - I clocked the ley spotter Luther Blissett scuttling into Huysmans. He was carrying a large box filled with old magazines. I instantly came in my pants. Twenty minutes passed before Blissett was out on the street again, minus the cardboard box. I'd already come, so the only way I could express my tremendous excitement was by shitting myself. A crack hooker standing nearby pulled a face and stomped off down the street complaining about scum lowering the tone of the neighbourhood. Obviously, she was an undercover spook who got a perverse kick out of smoking rocks and selling herself on the street.

Striding manfully across the road I savoured the delicious sensation of excrement oozing down my legs. The upstairs of Huysmans looks pretty much like any other pacifist bookshop with a stationery department in one corner. I'd have found the place a lot more tempting if they'd added a panty hose section. A lot of independent anti-fascist investigators like to dress up in ladies panty hose. The basement of the bookshop is rented out as a Trotskyist emporium specialising in second-hand tomes and dodgy remainders. A strange sound wafted up from the stairwell as I made my way towards it.

'The left in opposition, the left in opposition! As a part of the swamp, anarchism is a confused expression of the class struggle, whereas leftists collaborate in the suppression of class struggle. The left in opposition, the left in opposition! The positions of parasites might appear superficially similar to those of anarchists but in reality they are very different! The left in opposition, the left in opposition!'

It was The Shaker listening to a tape recording of a recent Conway Hall meeting held by the group who publish World Revolution. According to my situationist contact Michel Faurisson, World Revolution were the British section of the Bordiguist International Communist Current. This meant they were recuperators who'd never condemned the suppression of the Kronstadt Soviet by the Bolsheviks. As a left-wing green and independent anti-fascist investigator, I don't even pretend to understand all this sectarian stuff. Although Martin Heidegger was a top ranking member of the Nazi party, I still prefer his views to Marxist class struggle rubbish. Heidegger's theories enable me to cast my support for the peasantry in terms of their organic link to the land and "Being". The Nazis may have been racist but at least they were green, whereas according to my chum Faurisson, Blissett was crossing Bordiguism and occultism. I may not understand what this means but it seems like a good enough reason to denounce Blissett as a state asset who poses a serious threat to the security of the Catholic Church.

The Shaker was so absorbed in the tape of the ICC meeting that it was fully ten minutes before he enquired if the smell that had filled the basement was emanating from my bottom. I told him that I was proud to have shat my pants and wouldn't leave until he gave me the box of magazines he'd just purchased from Blissett. Sensing the unstoppable force of my determined personality, The Shaker threw the box at me. Clutching this prize I made my way up to the street. Once outside, I bumped into a fascist provocateur posing as a crack hooker who said she wouldn't let me fuck her with someone else's dick.

When I got home I couldn't believe my luck, not only was the box filled with old copies of the girl's comic Mandy which I could give to my chum Poland, there were also several different issues of the Bread Doll Fancier: A Magazine for Devotees put out by the notorious neoist Blaster Al Ackerman. My hands were trembling as I read a summer edition: 'Finally I quit sniffing solvents and then things picked up noticeably. I don't know, it was this 22 year-old girl and her boyfriend that finally turned me around as they showed me this doll they had made from old bread the size of a baby and the three of us laid around in bed with it one night. I just thought "this is great"... or was it just the power of the doll?'

Another great find was a copy of Richard Wortley's Skin Deep In Soho, a revealing look at London's square mile of sin published by Panther Books. At first I was puzzled by Blissett's annotations of the word 'mum' in the paperback - I wondered whether it was some malevolent joke indicating that I would never learn his secrets - but after long hours during which I applied the full force of my brilliant mind to this problem, I deduced that the stripper Tina Maria who'd guided Wortley around the hot spots of the sixties sex industry was, in fact, the ley spotter's mother. Wortley teased out contradictions in the stories Tina told him about her life and the marginalia confirmed these suspicions. Blissett's commentary was very revealing. Rather than being immensely wealthy as Tina Maria claimed, Blissett's father was actually a beatnik who'd come up to London to escape the horrors of working in the family chip shop on a south coast council estate. This orange layabout from an Anglo-Scots family of battered fish merchants had spent years living off the immoral earnings of Blissett's Catholic mum. No wonder their son had turned to ley spotting!

Just as sensational was a copy of The Left Against Zion: Communism, Israel and the Middle East edited by Robert S. Wistrich and put out by Vallentine Mitchell books of London in 1979. My attention was immediately drawn to an essay entitled 'New Left Reappraisals' by Ernest Hearst. I quote from page 249 of the tome because the message 'CIA bollocks' was emblazoned across it: 'German New Left anarchists - the true contemporary representatives of a national tradition of ideologically justified inhumanity - went a step further. Kunzelmann, a 31-year-old Kommunard whose progress from Berlin student politics to El Fatah terrorism was traced by Encounter (November 1970) won national fame by telling his SDS (Socialistischer Deutscher Studentenbund) colleagues in a political discussion: "Enough of this Scheiss-Geblabber! What's really important are my orgasm difficulties..." ' I recognised Kunzelmann's name from some papers I had been studying as background material to my exposure of Blissett. In the sixties Kunzelmann had been a member of the Situationist International. This was serious, it meant I would have to denounce my ultra-left contact Faurisson.

Anyway, returning to the main thrust of my narrative, I stayed up all night reading back copies of the Bread Doll Fancier. Fortunately, I live in the tower block across the way from the bagel bakery on Devon's Road in Bow. Looking down from my window I'd long ago noticed that unsold bread and bagels were nightly thrown into a dumpster bin in an alley behind the shop. I figured it wouldn't take me long to assemble a giant bread doll from this plentiful supply of raw material. At that time I hadn't taken into account the competition, a whole gang of fascist provocateurs disguised as tramps who were constantly stealing bread that was rightfully mine. However, I eventually dealt with these toadies by phoning the local police to complain that the hamster like noises they were emitting prevented me from getting any sleep.

Even after every last one of the fascist dossers who'd been purloining the bread had been locked up there was rarely enough dough to make a decent sized doll. That's when I remembered the old anarchist slogan: 'we don't want a slice of the cake, we want the whole bakery!' Wielding a whip and dressed in nothing more than a pair of stilettos and a smile, I made my way to Dev's Bagel Bar. Customers and staff ran screaming from the shop as I let rip with a mighty fart. Once everyone had disappeared, I loaded a shopping trolley with soft white bread and made return trips to collect more. After filling my bedroom with this booty I set to work making a larger than life-size replica of myself, God's gift to mankind Larry O'Hara.

Looking down on my wondrous creation I knew what the Lord must have felt like after creating Adam and Eve. He'd have gone straight back to the drawing board so that he could make something more extraordinary, something more like me, Larry O'Hara. Unable to breath life into my bread doll, I set to work making a hole in its shitchute, so that I could fuck myself up the arse. Oh how beautiful it felt as we made love and after I'd come, I clutched Larry Junior close to me. I carried him round and round the room for hours in my triumph and happiness. Larry Junior was perfect in every detail. Sure, his left leg had a tendency to come unstuck and drop off with a soft "plop" if he got jostled too much, but it was easily fixed each time it happened and Larry Junior never once complained.

Several nights later we were sleeping with the noises of the city flowing around us when Larry Junior woke me up and told me to check out the Sex Pistols CDs in the Virgin Megastore. It was a sign, a portent, exactly the type of thing that every independent anti-fascist investigator dreams about. I got up and made my way to Oxford Street. It didn't take me long to work out that the Sex Pistols were fascist. Their bass player Sid Vicious wore a swastika T-shirt and they performed songs with titles such as Belsen Was A Gas. I hurried back to Larry Junior so that I could tell him about this latest scandal which had been uncovered by my sophisticated investigation techniques. It was imperative that we set to work at once exposing the fact that punk rock was fascist. The fate of mankind rested upon our shoulders, me and Junior had to make the world safe for democracy.

When I got home there was a strange rustling sound coming from the boudoir. Junior lay on the bed looking for all the world like he was dying. He was enveloped in a sort of protective silky case like that spun by certain insect larvae before the pupa stage. The rustling noises grew louder. They seemed to be coming from inside Junior's body. I touched his stomach and it broke open like old paper and hundreds of black beetles came running out. A wave of fuddled confusion gripped me and I felt myself sinking insensible to the floor.

Hours, days later, I made my way to Portsmouth. There was a strange sound coming from Poland's flat. He was listening to the Sex Pistols. I knew then and there that he was responsible for Larry Junior's death and I vowed to expose him as a renegade. It was obvious heÕd been turned when he'd gone to prison for describing Margaret Thatcher as 'bat-like' in the pages of Green Anorakkk. Only a state asset would listen to fascist punk rock filth. I knocked on the door and when Poland answered it, I punched him in the face. He staggered backwards spitting out gouts of blood and the occasional piece of broken tooth. As Poland squirmed on the floor, I calmly explained to him that I would expose his politics in a tract. The evidence of my sincerity in this matter you now hold in your hands. Thanks to me, the marvellous Larry O'Hara, the world has once again been made safe for democracy!

An expanded version of this piece of investigative journalism by the immortal Larry O'Hara will appear in a forthcoming issue of Notes From Cloud-Cuckoo Land. In the  enlarged version, Larry will explore what makes Steve Booth (who alongside Paul Rogers now constitutes the entire membership of the Green Anarchist 'Network') tick. In particular, O'Hara intends to examine how Booth's military service with the RAF has influenced GA's eco-fascist ideology.

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