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With the CCUNTs’ democratic debate kicking off with the full-throated fervour of opposing fans on the terraces, I realise in the dribble of delirium a team point of order will need to be framed – through the Chair – whether a democratic-dictator who never can be sure what planet we’re on and who never enrolls for meetings can be counted a proper CCUNT.  But more pressing – if we are not stinking rich but cleaned-out vagrants hoodwinked by the sauvity of alcohol and a scoundrel democratic-dictator, then who will settle the bar bill?  A debate likely to be lively, liquid and lengthy.  These are the pressing points of order that must occupy the fluffy padding, fretting and legs of any Chair.


I stagger unseen into the storm and up the back passage, up the staircase to the crow’s nest of that old bird of prey Crispin Creosote where from the bottom drawer of my new desk I remove the spare flock of keys to the old Staff’ Home at the bottom of the hill.  The riot-squad of rooks and ravens and crows atop the high iron gates chirp chipperly to see a friendly face, a rock-steady force resting their immense bellies bulging with bucolic burgers and yet to rumble with the ruminant after-shock of backstreet nuclear sauce.  


The killing fields of Lower Springwood – the backstreets, slope and tar-pits – a mad acid-inspired Jackson Pollock creation dripped with black blood, putrefying burgers preferred by mutant blow-flies the size of flying horses to the clumps of horse-dung, rubber bullets, jumbled clothing, jagged driftwood, paper, broken banners, loose-fly leaflets, a jetsam of junk, Hell’s-Grannies’ knitting-projects, a cherry jam of brains and intestines and stomach juices, and teeth twinkling from the tar-pits like diamonds.    


From the backdrop of black cloud north London vultures swarm like Valkyries for a Götterdämmerung dining delight – a smorgasbord of smashed brains and limbs, bodily excrements and excretions, drooling delicacies dripping with the dressing of human desperation and destruction for the sport of the gods.  Bring your daughter to the slaughter, Mrs Worthington, the devil is always game for fresh souls even after Armageddon.


Down the rocky decline I tip-toe through the tularemia of deflowered devastation.  For narrow is the gate and crazily paved the path that leads to the underworld of the Staff’ Home.  Gone the infestation of management and their flash cars.  The front lawn overtaken with poison-hemlock.  Flourishing fresh-green ivy now downfallen stale brown strangleweed.  The oak door cracks creepily on a rusty frame.  Musty woodlice, dust-encrusted drapes and a malignant hopelessness pervade the hallway.  Half-fallen and hanging from a nail a roll-call of residents … Room 13 J G Ballard (basement).  I plunge with that sick prickly sensation in the stomach down the rotting staircase.


I stand staring at the door to a strange dimension, my heart beating with the force of a rozzer-Filth’s baton against a shield, and bury key 13 to release the dead-bolt, lean with my lean frame against the door, and squint with the squat light leaking from an upright tank of puffer-fish upon a metallic-white-chest-freezer-coffin, the hanging ghostly outline of a white Morg coat swaying with the energy of the storm.  Over the event-horizon I land upon an unearthly soft floor, twitch the switch to hitch from the bulb low light, my hand rests lightly on the abandoned diary of J G Ballard.  ‘He’s gone!’ my soul cries, all hope dissolving into ether, a lone tear splattering the open page, a gamma-ray burst of destitute-panic from the black hole of the stomach.


The curious humming metallic-white-chest-freezer-coffin clamped shut and on lifting the heavy lid I diagnose the safety-spring broken, and uncover the entwined bodies of J G Ballard and lover dead – definitely dead – delighted to be dead – no sign of struggle but drained of oxygen in their sweet sleep – carried o’er the River Styx – and as I look down I am certain that here lies two souls very much in love.