Episode I: The Street Credibility High Striker. Cool and Counter-Cool, Tall Tale II.

Cool and Counter-Cool:

Or; On Not Necessarily Being Uncool

Tall Tale II

Episode I: The Street Credibility High Striker

Not Being Cool at the Funfair

‘Hailey, Hailey, Hailey! You know that thing at the funfair?’

‘A Merry-go-Round?’

‘No, the one with the mallet and the bell?’

‘Mallet and bell?’

‘Yep, it’s massive. It looks like an inflated thermometer - it’s tall and got this bell at the top. You take an enormous hammer and bang the lever and depending how hard you hit it, the mallet goes ‘Thud!’, then this puck goes ‘Weeeeeee!’ up the thermometer device to measure your strength. If you’re strong enough, the puck hits the bell-end at the top and it goes ‘Bong!’ or ‘Ping!’ depending upon the specific dimensions of the bell!’

‘Oh, I know the thing.’

‘You do? Yes, but that’s not all! If you hit that bell, oh, if you hit that bell, somebody reluctantly comes over and hands you a soft teddy bear as your victorious trophy. Of course, it’s never been known to history that any of these bears has, in any way, surpassed Roly Bomefield for loyalty, devotion, and companionship, but – that’s beside the point.’

‘It’s a real thud-and-bong affair win-a-bear at the funfair!’

‘Good one, Hailey, good one. Hail to thee! You should be a smithword.’

‘But why mention it?’

‘Oh, yeah. Well, I’ve got one of these High Striker gadgets hardwired into my central nervous system. Embedded in my anatomy! I’ve been blessed with one instead of a Freudian unconscious mind.’

‘Errrm?’

‘Yes! It measures my street-cred. All the time. I can’t help it. Sort of psychic reflex reaction. Every time I get an invitation or compliment, my street-cred gets a boost. And every time my street-cred gets a boost, I hear the thud of the mallet on the lever and the ting-goes-ping and the bell-goes-bong!’

‘Isn’t that a bit adolescent?’

‘You bet it is! Couldn’t agree more!’

‘Oh.’

‘It really isn’t a good look for someone my age. I’ve got the adolescent equivalent of that toxic British disease, “Status Anxiety”!’

‘Hmm.’

‘I’m not even mature enough emotionally to have proper status anxiety. I could only dream of having status anxiety!’

‘But…?’

‘I know. It’s unfair. I’m not seeking street-cred. I don’t look for it. I’m not on a cred-quest. I don’t think in terms of it. I’m usually not even aware of it. You know me, I float off in literary daydreams most of the time and don’t even know the time. And yet, whenever my street-cred gets a boost, off goes the High Striker – “Thud-weeeeeee-Bong!” There it is.’

‘Can’t do anything about it then?’

‘Nope! Oh, why, oh why, can’t I be cool like Mr Moon or Dahc Dermur VIII? They see this whole counter-culture as a community, not a funfair competition! “I don’t believe in scenes I believe in people,” says Jamie, “Not a scene - a community!” He’s right. I believe that too. At least I do consciously.’

‘Consciously?’

‘But rammed right up my arse is this unconscious Street Credibility High Striker! It constantly works against all my good noble communal intentions. It undoes me quite and reveals me to be the total bell-end that I am! Oh, why can’t I just be cool?’

‘But you are cool!’

‘No, I’m not. You’re having a laugh! How would you like living life with a Street Credibility High Striker rammed up your arse? Can you imagine acting cool with one of those going off all the time in your hole?’

‘Ok, so if you’re not gonna listen to me, what about your friends? You’re friends think you’re cool. I mean, look at that birthday card they got you!’

‘Hmph! I’ve got a few words to say about that too, let me tell you. Here it is: “You are living proof you can be both old and cool,” it reads. Oh, cheers, Ruthy & Co.! The outrage! The nerve! How dare they call me cool?’

‘Eh?’

‘They just haven’t thought the problem through, have they? They’re my friends. They’re biased. They’re partisan. I can see right through their game! You really would think they’d have the diligence to be more intellectually dispassionate, wouldn’t you? Friends, eh? Can’t rely on them! Can’t rely on them at all!’

‘They bought you a nice present.’

‘Now don’t you be introducing irrelevant and haphazard details to throw me off the scent of my argument! Let’s not split hairs, muddy the waters, give me the run-around, or overuse idiomatic expressions!’

‘Ok.’

‘The bottom line is I’m tormented by a Street Credibility High Striker pounding up my rectum which prevents me from being cool,- so this is a pretty serious existential issue and I’d like it to be treated as such, thank you!’

A Good Hammering

So, dear readers, let me invite you to share in my sorrowful existential torment.

No matter how hard I’ve tried at this ‘rolling along in a cool way’ within this counter-cultural community lark, I’ve been blighted by the ominous presence of the insistent Thud-and-Bong of my internal Street Cred High Striker banging away up my arse.

It’s a more chilling affair than clocks chiming in Edgar Allan Poe.

‘It’s a community not a scene!’ Wise words from Mr Moon there, wise words!

Why is it that I always wind up creating a scene, eh? Honestly, you should read one of my blogs! Cool? My confessions sound like I’m hyperventilating.

Oh, the pity of it, Mr Moon, the pity of it!

Just think about the last few months.

Just think about how many hammer-blow-cred-boosts I’ve had to endure.

Back in the old days when people gave you an invitation they’d ring the bell on your front door. Complimentary invitations these days are quite another matter.

I get an invitation or compliment, bang goes the hammer on the Street Cred lever in my bum, up goes the puck, the bell goes bong, and my head explodes.

I implore you to empathise.

I can’t take it.

Could you?

So, here’s a quick month-by-month summary.

September:

‘Oh, hey Peril, why don’t you enter as one of the writers for the UK Fetish Awards?’

Thud!

‘Well, Zara, thanks very much. I’m honoured.’

Bong!

November:

‘We have sex parties at a mansion. Why don’t you come and model this suit you’re wearing?’

Thud!

‘Hadn’t thought about that one, Mr ------, - thanks!’

Bong!

December:

‘And who made this masterpiece? Come to the next LBB. I’ll put you on the guest list!’

Thud!

‘The Maestro did! Thank you, Glamourtits. I shall!’’

Bong!

January:

[…]

February:

Oh, look, there’s a Facebook invitation from Jonny Slut, my fave DJ of all time, to an invitation-only Bat Cave Relaunch Party!

Thud!

‘Thanks, Jonny, that’s really kind! Really excited!’

Bong!

March:

‘It’s your birthday? Oh, Happy Birthday! Have a free drinks Coupon!’

Thud!

‘Oh, cheers, Ricardo! That’s really kind. Thank you!’

Bong!

Blimey!

Well, you can imagine, dear readers;- these insistent blows to my Street Cred arse-lever have been quite an ordeal!

But you probably noticed something there, didn’t you?

No January?

Nothing?

Just a blank, eh?

Oh no, dear readers, oh no.

This is known as the art of understatement!

Or non-statement.

By downplaying the whole January Jaunt as a mere blank, an ellipsis, I’ve actually opened a narrative portal sideways into an epic event that occurred at le Boutique Bazaar from which my poor anatomy up and down is still trying to recover.

It is precisely through this narrative portal that Miss Ruby Alexia (SG) shall appear, wielding a mallet of such strength that it makes a Black and Decker sledgehammer forged from Valerian steel by Vulcan himself look like a soft, drooping, mouldy banana.

My Street Cred High Striker got such a hammering of approval from this fair warrior that the bell suffered a major cognitive malfunction, as we shall soon see!

And so begins a very tall-tale…

(It needs to be tall to make room for the sheer height of my Street Credibility High Striker, by the way.)

Major Dave Oddity Monster Rave Odyssey

Now before I disclose to you the precise details of Miss Ruby Alexia (SG)’s mallet, it would be worthwhile relaying the time, the place, the where, the when, and all that whatnot - so you don’t get just as lost as I did.

It’s hard to lose yourself in a single rectangular room, I know, but I aim high with my ambitions. An heroic feat attained such as this could give me another accolade to brag about to my friends.

Ok, so, - it’s approaching 4pm in the afternoon at le Boutique Bazaar, late January.

But there’s always a backstory, you see, and always a snag;- and this spot of scene-setting-behind-the-scene-setting is pretty darned crucial to my confession if I’m to be excused, absolved, let off, and let free to burden society once again.

So, what might either be the cause of my actions or the redemption of them is that at Monster Queen the night before the LBB Miss Ruby Alexia (SG) mallet incident, Jxn Coco and Matt CC – two of the best in the dark-synth business – have rocket-launched me vertically 10 kilometres high – forcing me to breach the outer troposphere: https://soundcloud.com/jxn_coco/jxncoco_b2b_mattcc?fbclid=IwAR2g_6b2C8o7GxTKcn0cpJ2KQ_4MchZ7kc9TvQrsjhwWnHo7ikM5NA7B-ig

They’ve done one of those tag-team duo-jobs which put the after-burners on!

And I just keep going:

Stratosphere.

‘Hello!’

Mesosphere.

‘Hi, how goes it? Good seein’ ya!’

Thermosphere.

‘I’m feeling bit light-headed here. Can you help, buddy?’

Exosphere.

‘Vertigo-alert! Errrrm.’

You name the spheres, they’ve propelled me beyond anysphere.

‘Oooooooh.’

Their colleagues on-the-decks didn’t help either, you know. I was getting a serious Major Tom Dave Oddity panic at the end of the eve:

‘Oh! Hi Aaron! Ground control? Am I floating in a most peculiar way? Do the stars look very different today?’

‘Hi! You danced all evening!’

‘I did!’

‘How are you getting home?’

‘Taxi, I think. Problem is - I’m sitting in a tin can, far above the world, planet earth is blue and there’s nothing I can dooooooooo.’

Now, lean in and listen:

It’s taken me the best part of the following day after this Monster Queen Dave Oddity Rave to parachute back down to the earth’s crust. I remain unsure whether spacehead here, or headspace there, has landed yet on Planet Houston. Jonny Cosmonaut, the musician, who’s trying to read a book in peace at the LBB bar before I accost him with all manner of questions about his reading habits, is far better equipped for these inter-planetary climes than I.

I’m longing to experience the earth’s tectonic movements and fault-lines.

Reassuringly, I found my way to the LBB upon a gently undulating pavement of some kind, – as you’d entirely expect.

Inside, - the wooden floor is another story.

I feel I’m bouncing along on the largest club-sandwich of five spring-bound mattresses ever to grace a restaurant.

I’m at gravity-nought.

I’m also virtually deaf!

I’ve danced sensibly for seven-hours-flat in very companionable proximity to an admirably huggable Ministry of Sound loudspeaker.

A good rave is my Achilles’ heel! I’ve worn an inane grin on my face all night, - but all I can hear now is residual feedback. Add that to the layers of tintinnabulation still echoing from the last few month’s Street Cred High Strikes, I could put Quasimodo out of work.

I’m aurally navigating the LBB as though I’ve been isolated, ears rammed with exploding clouds of cotton wool, inside an padded cell with a marauding clan of sadistic horny gnats.

How about the visuals? Am I able to see? That would help.

Nope, not really.

My contact lenses can no longer correct the cataracts with which I was blessed when born whining-and-dining into the world, and a pleasant skimmed-milk opacity has delicately lent its aid to every inanimate and organic life-form that’s haphazardly obstructing my wary path.

Add a rotating room, or imagine you’re trying to find your bearings while being banished to live on a merry-go-round, and you’ve pretty much got the picture!

This whole LBB business is an ethereal unfair-funfair of optical, sensory, and synaesthetic illusions.

Thankfully, what I do know is that my shoelace has come undone.

How I know is beyond me.

It’s a miracle!

Perhaps there are gods and goddesses, after all?

The goddess of undone shoelaces, my guardian spirit-protectress! How I shall praise and worship your tutelage for helping me avoid another clumsy accident!

Narrowly.

I don’t say that lightly because the earth seems a tad shaky here and I might topple over, head-first, from my snapped knees like the last moments of The Colossus of Rhodes.

Wouldn’t that be a wonder?

Now, as I raise myself, shakily, diagonally, teeteringly, I probably look a bit like Caliban learning to curtsey.

But, at that very moment, I’m distracted by a light tinkle.

A musical cadence of a musical voice.

A cascading music of the spheres!

A waterfall voice, which says:

‘I like your suit. That’s really amazing!’

And, lo!

Before me stands Miss Ruby Alexia (SG).

…

Oh, Delphic Oracle! What, pray tell, does this foretell?

(… for my Street Credibility High Striker?)

This is just as if Athena had descended with a message for a totally clapped-out Achilles armed with not one, but two, wobbly heels.

It’s just the same.

...

[cont...]

Cool and Counter-Cool:

Or; On Not Necessarily Being Uncool

Tall Tale II

Episode II: The Phantom Curtsey Radar