3:AM Magazine

By Joseph Ridgwell.

Isabella Delores knew everyone and everyone knew Isabella Delores. On the underground lit and art scene that is. Amongst those in the know she was the ‘Woman Rebel’, the latest modern militant feminist writer to create a stir. I’d heard all about her, but had taken zero interest like I did with most things, apart from getting drunk, writing dirty stories, and visiting the odd Brass house.

At this time I’d discovered a new brothel, located in a smart apartment a few blocks down from my own. This Brass house was run by Albanian gangsters and the girls were all Easto-European sex slaves. I didn’t give a shit about that as long as Elena’s Sauna kept undercutting all the other Brass houses and ensured the girls were as sexy as fuck. Young, not too worn out, tight pussies, etc.

Then, one night, I arrived at Elena’s Casa a little bit the worse for wear. The brass took the opportunity to tell me all about her situation. I was so drunk all I could do was lie there and listen. It was a tale of kidnap, rape, extortion, exploitation. Being a bit of a softy – and incapacitated – I promised to help. I mean, the girl was a looker, big blue eyes and long black hair. Just before the Albanian heavies appeared to send me on my way, the poor thing handed me a phone number. Help Me, is what those tragic Balkan eyes had written all over them.

Outside the Brass house, I reflected on stuff. I pulled out the scrap of paper. Maybe I should help her, I thought. Then I had a moment of clarity. I scrunched the paper into a ball and threw it over my shoulder. Instead, I decided to use the experience to write a play for the BBC. Those liberal clueless fucks will love something like that, I thought boozily. ‘White middle-class English male meets Bosnian sex slave whilst teaching English as a foreign language to illegal immigrants. Falls in love, divorces dutiful but predictable wife and then discovers a dark side.’

Great start I reckoned as I zig-zagged home, ideal part for Hugh Grant or if the Beeb couldn’t afford that fellow swordsman, the geezer from Dr Who. By the time I reached my apartments I was already a millionaire scriptwriter, turning down offers from Hollywood, Broadway, Cannes, even Bollywood.

The next day I forgot all about the Brass, the promising screenplay, and went straight to my local boozer for a much needed hair of the dog,

‘How’s the writing going?’ asked Alfie the landlord. Alfie was into books big time. All the big boys, the brand names, Michael Crichton, Iain Banks, Patricia Cornwall, even Martina Cole. He never read any of the books, but then who did?

‘I think I’m in the process of becoming a living legend,’ I replied croakily.

‘Usual?’

‘Yay, plus some pork scratchings.’

Alfie grabbed a pint glass, one with a London Pride transfer on it. I noted the LP transfer, but said nothing. I didn’t want to appear pedantic, ‘Made any money yet?’ he asked as he poured my pint.

I held out one hand beneath the bar and noticed it was shaking visibly, ‘Na, but one of my groupies has started an official fan club.’

This was a blatant lie, but strangely Alfie remained unimpressed, ‘Don’t give up the day job.’

I thought about the day job then. I’d been off work for five weeks, suffering from acute anxiety and a vague notion of stress. Actually there was nothing wrong with me, but freakily the doc had signed me off. However, my latest medical certificate ran out in three days’ time and unless I committed myself there would be no more.

‘He who laughs last is the master,’ I mumbled, as I took a huge swig of wife beater and ripped open the pork scratchings,

‘Anyway,’ I said between swigs and crunches.

‘Anyway what?’ Replied Alfie.

‘I’m ganna write about the Woman Rebel!’

Alfie raised his eyebrows. He knew all about Isabella Delores who, in his experienced opinion, was on a one way path to oblivion, a bit like Edie Sedgwick, ‘And write what exactly?’

I took another huge swig of Stella, ‘How, in secret, she loves to iron men’s shirts!’

Alfie laughed at that, I mean it was funny because Isabella was the author of a controversial pamphlet entitled, ‘What Every Modern Girl Should Know.’ This manifesto advocated, amongst other things, ‘That each woman be the absolute master of her own body and that all men were utterly and inexorably superfluous, aside from procreation and alimony.’

I agreed with most of Isabella’s anti-male philosophy, and I’d also seen the photos in some obscure Hoxton arts mag. Despite the fact she was a devotee of the furry cup, she was also a looker, a cross between an Eastern European Brass, Dorian Leigh, and Jackie O.

As I supped my hair of the dog, I reckoned my next mission was to somehow pull Isabella and then write about the experience for the new book I was working on. I wasn’t sure how I was going to achieve this, but it appeared imperative that I do. I envisaged the novel as the culmination of the non-fiction novel, a bit like Kerouac’s Subterraneans or Capote’s Answered Prayers or Marcel Proust’s, In Search of Lost Time.

The next day, sober, but feeling supersensitive I got to work. I contacted some of the main players on the underground lit scene and gave them the low down. The first to get back to me was Gerry Jerome. Jerome was a professor of English at some top European educational establishment, who, despite his eminent position was something of a degenerate radical,

‘Gerry,’ I said, ‘I need to meet Isabella Delores.’

Gerry cleared his throat, ‘And why do you need to do that Ridgwell?’

I remained steadfast, ‘Research for my new novel.’

Gerry cleared his throat again; maybe he had a frog in there, ‘Are you telling me you’re writing a novel?’

‘Yeah, I fucking am, now can you sort out a meeting with the Woman Rebel?’

Through the handset I could detect the patronising sneer, but eventually Jerome came up trumps, ‘Okay, Ridgwell, Delores will be at the Foundry on the 14th. A group of slam symbolists poets are meeting to discuss plans to hijack one of the mainstream lit festivals, you can catch her there.’

‘Groovy Gerry, I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

‘But Ridgwell?

‘Yes.’

‘Promise me one thing?’

‘What’s that, Prof?’

‘This shit, whatever it is, has nothing to do with me?’

‘Mum’s the word.’

The evening of the fourteenth found me pacing the pavement outside an East End pub called, The Foundry. It was a well-known establishment for the trendy underground arts scene holding many readings, exhibitions etc. Most of the artists were total unknowns and would remain that way for the rest of their natural-born lives. Well, that was their tough shit, which didn’t matter because nothing matters anyway.

I peered through one of the windows. I couldn’t see shit. I gave it a quick rub with the sleeve of my jumper, and peered inside again. The pub was almost empty, but congregated at the far end were a group of what I usually term as the Great Unwashed.

Huddled together were some scraggy looking birds dressed like outpatients at the local mental institution and some effeminate but soapy looking male specimens dressed like chemistry teachers from the 1970s. Then I saw her, Miss Delores, holding court amongst the weirdos. She was a tall bird, gangly, not much tits, but a nice pair of pins and as I’ve mentioned before a very striking face, pure fifties glamour.

I stepped inside and up to the bar. After having already downed six wife beaters in quick succession in a nearby boozer I was lagging. I ordered another Stella and a whiskey chaser and then listened in. Isabella was waffling some militant feminine shit about marriage, none of which was original, but the way she spoke demanded a certain attention.

‘Marriage is no concern of the State or the Church or the Mosque or any other place of worship. Never have these institutions interested themselves in the happiness or health of the individual. To the stupid superstitions of all the world’s great religions can be traced a great proportion of the world’s fucking misery.’

‘Here, here,’ said some faggot.

‘Yes, yes,’ cooed a couple of lezza’s.

I downed some of my pint, dropped my chaser inside, and continued to listen in, ‘Life in this society being at best an utter bore, thrill-seeking females now have nothing left but to overthrow the government, eliminate the money system, and destroy the male sex.’

Okay, the words were not her own but the way she spoke and held herself entranced and beguiled me, ‘Fucking A!’ I bawled out.

Isabella looked up, clocked me, and shot a disdainful glance in my direction, ‘Look at that fuck,’ She hissed.

Everyone in the room turned and eyeballed me. I gave them the thumbs up,

‘I’d shag it,’ I said with a gentle boozy smile.

While the others voiced their disgust at my mere presence, Isabella walked over, ‘This here geezer,’ she pronounced emphatically, before prodding me in the shoulder a couple of times, ‘is exactly what I’m talking about. Look at this fucker. He is the epitome of the egocentric male, trapped inside himself, incapable of empathizing or identifying with others. He is a completely isolated unit. His responses are entirely visceral, not cerebral. He is a half-dead, unresponsive lump, incapable of giving or receiving pleasure or happiness; consequently, he is at best an utter bore, an inoffensive blob!’

I thought Isabella was taking things a bit far with the inoffensive blob description, but as she was standing beside me I decided to give her delectable derriere a quick squeeze. Which I did, followed by a quick poke to the pussy. At this Isabella let out a squeal of what I can only describe as delight,

‘You dirty fucker!’

The crowd of trendies edged closer, sensing blood their visages etched with full on hatred, I pulled a kung-fu stance,

‘Whoa,’ I said, ‘Isabella, tell the Great Unwashed to fuck right off or I won’t be responsible for my actions!’

‘Why the fuck should I?’ spat out Isabella.

I relaxed my kung-fu stance and stood upright, ‘Coz I’m ganna write an article about ‘The Woman Rebel’ for a national broadsheet.’

At the mention of the words ‘National broadsheet’ Isabella’s demeanour underwent a sudden transformation. She held out a hand and quelled the baying mob. Then she gave me the once over,

‘Why the fuck should I believe you, Neanderthal man?’

I took a quick swig from my Nelson Mandella and said simply,

‘Coz when I say I’ll do something I usually do it.’

Now Isabella’s blue eyes literally brightened and dazzled,

‘And what makes you think I’ll fucking agree?’

I held out my hands in a conciliatorily gesture, ‘I figure you’ll enjoy the mainstream exposure, and, by the way, you have beautiful eyes. In fact they’re so beautiful I think I would like to shag you in them.’

I heard some loud tuts and whispered words of admonishment from the Great Unwashed behind me, but strangely Isabella blushed and became almost coy,

‘Fuck you, I’ll make you into a eunuch if any of this is bullshit, but okay let’s do it.’

Half an hour later I was plotted up inside Isabella’s plush Hoxton Square apartment. For someone who didn’t work and had no visible means of support she sure lived well. Just as I was wondering if Isabella was in the pocket of a sugar daddy, she appeared with a bottle of red and two antique looking wine glasses. The glasses were small with blue stems and intricate glazing. If I got the chance I decided I’d nick them,

‘So what would you like to ask me Ridgwell?’ Asked Isabella as she poured the vino.

After getting her to fill my antique glass to the brim I decided to cut straight through the bullshit,

‘Listen Isa, I don’t give a flying fuck for all your borrowed ideas or outdated feminist ideology, but I would like to shag you. And afterwards I’m ganna write an article that will make you out to be the most important female spokesperson since Solanas. Is it game on?’

Isabella nearly choked on her expensive rioja. Then she leaned over, grabbed my groin region and pulled me towards her,

‘You cunt, I haven’t had a decent piece of cock for over eighteen months and muff-diving, no matter how much of a turn on eventually becomes wearisome, and vibros just aren’t the fucking same, even the two-way one’s!’

I put down my wine, ‘Shit,’ I muttered.

I awoke the next morning early, busting to go a piss. I found the bog, lifted the toilet seat, and pissed lengthily and leisurely. When I retuned to the bedroom, neglecting to replace the toilet seat, Isabella was still asleep. She was snoring and there was some dried up cum around her chin and lips. As I slipped into my clothes a wave of nausea hit me. I double swallowed back and then lurched out of there.

On the streets, I reflected on things. I wasn’t going to write an article about Isabella Delores in any national broadsheet because I’d been blacklisted long ago after calling one of their journos a fuck up. After that the hack’s had closed ranks and completely shut me out. Still, it wasn’t all bad, as I now had plenty more material for the new novel I was working on provisionally entitled, ‘Booze, Birds, and the Literary Underground.’

The sun shone weakly and I walked on.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joseph Ridgwell is a writer. According to some sources it took him over a decade to get a decent line down. His first chapbook of poetry is called, Where are the Rebels? and is available from blackheath books. He also thinks we are witnessing the decline of western civilization and relishes the prospect of imminent doom. Fight fire with fire, he says, and load the literary guns!

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Wednesday, December 24th, 2008.