Jerusalem Offertory – Nor Shall his Pork Sword Sleep in his Hand

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

May 13th – shuffled sheepishly through Immigration, enduring a 30-second staring down by a young Aryan Israeli woman in army fatigues. First sign that this is a nation under occupation; by itself. Last time an attractive girl looked at me like that I was wrapped in duct-tape, breathing through a piece of conduit. Why do I already feel like an imposter on this journey? That at any moment somebody will point and bellow ‘what’s that asshole doing here?’ and the whole grim crowd will turn …? Last night’s ElAl adventure was disconcerting, as if I had boarded the wrong plane: the regular one, in which people watched movies, slept and read books had departed from a different gate. I’d stumbled onto the one where everyone got tarted up like the Nativity, strapped boxes to their heads and vanished under sheets to bob and mumble like citizens of Bedlam. No sign of my special-order bacon-wrapped-scallops and only a sad shake of the attendant’s head when I inquired about Lexi Luvavich’s She Fiddled Me On The Roof, absent from the in-flight entertainment menu. What’s Business Class come to? Grey beef like a poached hand, spheroid potatoes scalded into floury eyeballs, ashen green beans that dissolve on the tongue. Syrupy wine redolent of prunes. Almost made me feel guilty for having coerced 200,000 frequent flyer miles out of Geoffrey Freeman, spinning tales of mercy-missions to cleft-palate godchildren in Tegucigalpa sweating under the yoke of pig, bird and ass flu. He would scoff at these Zionist beanstalk-seeds, bartered for so many points, being accustomed to the pan-seared Bengal Tiger and complimentary analingus of China Air’s Tycoon Class. Minibus to Jerusalem was scant improvement, squeezed into the wheel-well by a gentleman whose panoply of loin-fat threatened to overwhelm the entire van, like something from a John Carpenter film. By the time he was levered onto the sidewalk his food vacuole had begun digesting my hand-luggage. Finally expunged from this body-odour laboratory half a mile shy of the Old City, I sniffed around what slowly revealed itself to be Palestinian East Jerusalem, grimacing, waving off assistance lest my sparrowy chassis be rendered baba ganoush before I’d squeezed it through The Damascus Gate. Eventually found rest at the Austrian Hospice, funereal guesthouse-come-convent with notes of Berchtesgaden, scampering nuns and a drizzle of pallid Christians in teal fleece. Floppy-haired desk-clerk – straight off the seilbahn from Innsbruck – with missionary zeal in his eyes; might have tried to unholster the old 5D but I suspect the Lord would have come between me and the lad’s weisswürst, staying my trigger finger like Abraham’s over Isaac. And wasn’t that Tomorrow Belongs to Me he was humming as he photocopied my passport? Second floor cell gazing out at a wall. Bed, upright chair, 60-watt bulb. Larkin would grin; though not at that bible, squatting like a toad. Succumbed to godless and sadly sober exhaustion.


5.30 am – What in the Aching Arse of Allah is that!?! Black as pitch outside and in. The crepuscular silence is shattered by sudden, sustained metallic wail, not unlike John Lydon in his Flowers of Romance phase. But so much louder. And more enduring. Did I set my iPhone to Muezzin Shriek last night and accidentally stuff it in my ear? Listening more carefully, I discern the presence of a second, similar wail, more distant. Then another. And another. I lie on my nunnish bed unpicking each ululation as it weaves in and out of the whole; breaking, recovering in a kind of soaring, plaintive harmony. Part lament, part din, part incantation. I’m kaleidoscoping fragments of Paul Bowles dancing with Scheherazade on the back of my eyeballs. I want to hubble, I want to bubble, to ride camels across dunes with Debra Winger in nothing but a diaphanous winding-sheet of sheer muslin. This is Jerusalem. Alone in a Christian Sanctuary built on Jewish bedrock listening to the Muslim call to prayer. Then just as the voices staggered one-by-one into being, so they cease; the song quiets by degrees to silence. The first blush of dawn rinses the walls of my cell and I ooze backwards into the ragged embrace of jet-lag.


Late Morning – Totter down the steps of the hospice and almost derail a caravan of pilgrims advancing in imperious pavane down the Via Dolorosa. These are resolutely not the pilgrims of yore, clad in reverential sackcloth-and-ashes. Instead: Americans in cargo shorts and XXL Sweatshirts that proclaim Jesus Died for MySpace in Heaven or iGod – Who Are You Listening To?. Their taxonomy bisects the pink/porcine and the sallow/bespectacled/studded-with-acne. They are united by the omnipresent fanny-pack and that aspect of pug-nosed hauteur culled from The Evangelist Handbook on How to Look Pious. At the head of the group is some buttery fatso wielding a mighty cross, doubtless a talisman for warding off unclean Arab traders who line the route trying to flog pairs of plastic praying hands to the suety flock. If there was an inter-faith stylathon played out on the streets of Jerusalem the Christian Evangelists wouldn’t make the first hurdle. The willowy, fast-moving Hasidic boys in their sharp frockcoats and fedoras leave these asthmatic pachyderms jiggling in their wake.


The Fourth Station of the Cross, where Jesus purportedly bumped into his Mum (an encounter sadly absent from the Bible) is conveniently situated opposite the door to my hostel, allowing me to watch the burlesque whilst munching the nipple of an awful croissant. A puddingy hermaphrodite with ginger comb-over edges to the front of the group and falls to his/her knees, blubbering ‘We adore you O Christ and we praise you!’ over-and-over whilst attendant manatees nod in agreement and massage his shoulders as if commiserating with him over a lost pencil. This behaviour is neither alarming nor distressing, only morbidly embarrassing. Regathering his sullen composure, he is assisted to his feet with grimaces of sympathy and treacly mutterings of ‘bless you, bless you’. It is the kind of exhibitionism that causes one’s innards to spontaneously jellify. I find myself trying to make eye-contact with nearby Arabs to apologise with my eyebrows for Christianity; but they are unperturbed. They’ve seen this infantilism a million times before and are impervious to it. I fall into line as the lardy procession trundles up the street to Station Five (the otherwise-unheard-of Simon of Cyrene asks Jesus ‘Can I give you a hand with that?’), Station Six (Jesus asks Veronica for a turkey panini) and Seven (Simon the Lisper reveals the sandwich-maker hath no turkey, will a tuna melt do?). The whole thing is, naturally, an utter fiasco. There’s as much chance that Jesus plodded this mediæval alleyway with or without half a tree on his back as there is of Golda Meir being retroactively elected Pope. But the theatre is delightful and the trinkets are going like hot cakes! I disembark the Ship of Fools and head straight to Station Ten which, appropriately (it’s where Jesus had his underpants pulled down) is within the Catholic confines of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. To get to this point one is forced to dodge gaggles of peroxided Russian women, all on doggie all-fours, snogging the Stone of Unction – an unctuous slab of hanky-panky set in place 1800 years after the Good Shepherd was purportedly oiled-up on it.


If the fictional melodramas of the Via Dolorosa seem utterly bananas, the constellation of doolally that litters the Church of the Holy Sepulchre renders them bastions of Kantian Reason. It’s a complete fucking nuthouse, my dears. Cave upon cave of sanctified fabulism and goggle-eyed voodoo. We have yer actual Rock of Golgotha, Guv’nor, fingerable through a greasy hole in the glass: yer authentic True Cross, now under lock-and-key since the ever-kissing pilgrims starting nibbling off pieces to take home under their tongues. For those leery of ecclesiastical herpes we have yer verifiable Adam’s Tomb, ooh yes missus, that Adam, handily situated directly beneath the spot where Our Lord was crucified. And if you peer through that little window there you’ll see the crack made by the earthquake that spontaneously erupted at the moment of his taking off. There’s even a suitably Jamaica Inn Treasure Room, not in this instance filled with gold doubloons and a parrot squawking ‘Pieces of Eight’. Instead, sweetmeats less lurid: Saint Agatha’s desiccated tits, for instance. The tongue of the infant Saint Barnabus: John the Baptist’s loincloth: the knobbles of Saint Galagnus’s scrotum. It is nothing less than a phantasmagorical pre-Renaissance theme park, complete with creaking sound-effects, bizarre pyrotechnics and splendidly costumed and bearded attendants. One almost expects to ride a water-flume into the Immaculate Uterus. The whole shitfest suppurates and crumbles under the weight of centuries of neglect and internecine rancour. Each rotten pocket of the tatty old Christmas cake is under the rabid protectorate of a different orthodoxy and is jealously coveted by all the others. The Greeks loathe the Armenians who scowl at the Franciscans who kick the Coptics who piss in the chalices of the Syrians. The poor fucking Ethiopians have been exiled to the roof where they subsist in a muddle of Parker Brothers wigwams. Shuffling through their diminutive chapel, I heard a monk whisper ‘you wan’ buy ganja, man?’. The Copts have set up what appears to be a fleamarket booth, glued to the rump of the Holy Edicule, fashioned from wrought-iron gates, brocade curtains and plastic sheeting. It groans with liturgical tchotchke, Uncle Bulgaria dolls, Home Pong consoles and those rubber shower attachments that fit onto bath faucets. Squatting inside is an ornery witch, hacking, passing gas. One false move by any of the bewildering array of combatants and all hell breaks loose. As recently as 2008 the Greeks and Armenians went at it in full vestments over the issue of a monk loitering in a funny way. In 2004 the Greeks and Russians tag-teamed the Franciscans because somebody left a door open. Both cases involved full-on ecclesiastical kung-fu, hurling of artifacts, blood-letting and police intervention. Most delightfully, in a 2002 reinterpretation of the Christian precept do as Thou wouldst be done by, the Ethiopians opened a can of whoop-ass with the Egyptian Coptics on the roof after a monk moved his chair into the shade on a sunny day. Iron bars and paving stones were put to canonical use, resulting in several hospitalizations. In the run up to the 1989 Feast of the Holy Cross it was rumoured the Armenians had engaged the services of WWF’s Jim (The Anvil) Neidhart in false beard and cassock, to man the dodgy corner by the stairs to Calvary.


All the competing attractions within the Church, however, pale into insignificance in the face of the eponymous Holy Sepulchre itself. TripAdvisor gives it four-and-a-half thumbs up. At the core of a dusky, public lavatory-sized crypt – not unlike a rococo rendering of Doctor Who’s Tardis held together by girders stamped Bombay Metal Company and isolated at the centre of a chasmal rotunda – lurks Jesus of Nazareth’s one-and-only, honest-to-God tomb (not to be confused with his other honest-to-God tomb, half a mile away, imagined into being by General Gordon of Khartoum whilst sipping Singapore Slings at the American Colony in 1883). Within its marble confines, Gentle Pilgrim, beyond its Hobbity doorway, lies the final resting place of the Lamb of God. Well, not strictly true, what with him hopping that moonbeam to the stars and all … but still … the ultimate, sacred repository of his corporeal nuts and bolts. Christianity’s innermost sanctum. Having diddled the Rock, licked the walls, made out with the floor and sniffed Saint Sebastian’s foreskin I’ll be damned if I’m leaving without a trip inside Christ’s Big Kahuna.

And so I fall in line behind a beautiful girl and await my turn for rapture. As the queue shuffles forward I cannot help but cast repeated sidelong glances at her. She really is beautiful: clear, unpretentiously elegant, radiating calm and poise, her hair pulled back from her face and tucked sweetly into a headscarf. Albanian? Azerbaijani? I’m already envisioning under-the-table no panty shots when I am struck by a dreadful realisation: that isn’t a headscarf. It’s a wimple. She’s a nun. I’m about to duck into Christianity’s Holiest of Holies and all I can think about is a nun’s vagina? As I crouch under the doorway, she turns, smiles and places her palm on my head, shielding it from glancing contact with the stone lintel. And I want to weep. I’m inside the Holy Edicule with an actual saint and my mind is just one, vast, stinking reservoir of turd. I’m sure they can smell it in Tel Aviv. I want to beg her forgiveness and retreat from the crypt, but the space is miniscule, she’s facing away from me and there’s a leopard-printed Ukrainian stabbing my buttocks with her iPhone in the funereal gloom. A couple of seconds and we are propelled forward through the low gap in the antechamber wall … and we’re in the tiny, candlelit Sepulchre itself, three of us squeezed together like pilchards. My heart is pounding: this is all wrong. And she’s down. Down at my shins. Crumpled, on her knees, her cheek on the small, smooth slab, her hand tenderly stroking the stone, eyes closed, lips mouthing little supplications; pure, transparent, radiant ecstasy. A hundred-thousand secular, snorting mockeries evaporate in an instant. And I am an enormous, hapless Stinkosaurus, annihilated in the presence of such Love.

Perkin’s Jeweled Crown

Since Selwyn was tenderly defrocked, abandoning his ministries in order to concentrate attention on The Nun’s Hole, The Lovely Brothers have been beavering away up the rectory.  The fruits of their labors have finally emerged; a glistening new website championing The Hole’s unique attributes. Additionally, for the first time in years, Perkin got his hands on Selwyn’s Bell End, gave it a rub down with a damp cloth, and inserted it right up The Nun’s Hole – same area, slightly further down. 


Perkin is real, working in spirit,
You can see him and hear him in this world every day.
Perkin is real, working with power,
He can tempt you and lead you astray.

I attended service at a little church
In the country not long ago.
A prayer was led by an old country preacher
Who then raised his hands as everyone stood and sang
‘My God is real’.
A warm breeze through the open windows,
Brought in the smell of new mown hay in a nearby field,
And the singing of birds could be heard
In the moment of silence
As the preacher opened the bible to read.
And then a little old man stood up, bent with age,
His hair thin and white
And said, ‘Preacher, tell them that Perkin is real too!
You can hear him in songs that give praise to idols
And sinful things of this world,
You can see him in the destruction of homes torn apart.
I know that Perkin is real,
For once I had a happy home.
I was loved and respected by my family,
I was looked upon as a leader in my community.
And then Perkin came into my life.
I grew selfish and un-neighborly,
My friends turned against me,
And finally, my home was broken apart.
My children took their paths into a world of sin.
Yes preacher, it’s sweet to know that God is real,
And know that in Him all things are possible,
And we know that Heaven is a real place
Where joy shall never end.
But sinner friend, if you’re here today,
Perkin is real too,
And Bell End is a real place,
A place of everlasting punishment.’

Perkin is real, working in spirit,
You can see him and hear him in this world every day.
Perkin is real, working with power,
He can tempt you and lead you astray.

Stopping by Sloatsburg on a Sunday Evening

Poem for Today. Selwyn spares a Bell End thought for all you Catskills rest-stop weekenders out there.

Whose Subaru is this, we sing,
Parked up here by the Burger King?
He will not see us stopping here
For Whopper Meal and Poland Spring.

We’re driving with some prancing queer
From Williamsburg or somewhere near
Who didn’t want to take the bus
And drank our farmhouse dry of beer.

The dog found something in the grass
Which now is belching from its ass.
The kids are bored to fucking tears
Of Townes Van Zandt and Ira Glass.

The car smells like a cheese fondue.
But I have loads of shit to do,
And miles to go before I poo,
And miles to go before I poo.

Robert Frowst

Bell End Meets Elle Korea

Three weeks with our nose to the grindstone of language learning software and we think we’ve cracked it. Elle Decor Korea’s piece on Bell End.  See below.


Life Differently 1!

Got changed in a multi-stall environment!

Home life is different if he is different. Here, in the space of his house he break away from the typical story of his own.  Six different genders he introduce to the lifestyle.

JULIAN RICHARDS stables converted in a multi-space.

Photographer Agent him, New York

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His entrance is wide open, the way his people are going to come to look at his Bell End. Panoramic living room. His tops are made ​​of wood taken from bowling alley in business no chance.

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Decoration refrain as much as possible making him unified, modern bedroom concept. All bedding is Ignorance.

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I recently moved to his lodge, second in country. Awful child, pully hair and noise maker. Not in Korea would tell ‘shut rude face’ stab with fork. Bell End for photographer agent Julian Richards and only sex.

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Things from every day seen in the more special because of his vintage wood has been used a lot and a bit worn out. Reminiscent of the shape and height of the window stall is Julian ‘s idea.

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Three bedrooms with stairs that float to the second floor without exception, even hanging children.

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Kitchen just another brick wall with white paint to paint otherwise feel my jellybean trembling.

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Nearly 4 metre long dining room and kitchen, he is flaming and open. Place is perfect for hoopla.

As agents in photographer Julian Richards is big Bell End, born two-and-a-half years ago with friends (Bell End). Real estate at the time of the suggestion was with a friend who was doing any number of photographers. Can be used for many purposes and create a space. “In the past, where the stables used because I got old and dirty. Garage doors are very large differences in the use, or completely abandoned, but not dogging. We’re here to New York and visit the agency converted into series of parties and events belong to artists, gallery show, I created a naughty space for progress. ” Julian is the most focused part of the building.  Have a unique story to maximize space atmosphere that was optimized for dirty party, his passage was wide and open. “Usually the gate is my entrance and the Bell End have several visits inside, but when you open it up that brings out the pedestrians are walking around India.  If you leave my entrance hanging open in the summer people would blindly come home and poke about. Take photos of the hole and inside. What they think it takes, I guess.” All of a sudden the house is located, the port is green and ‘second Williamsburg’ is called as The Bell End. Every visit it emerged as Brooklyn. These days, young people gather around it very often, try the handles than what transformed the space into living and attracted the attention of people because of the history. Stall doors that open on both sides is reminiscent of a large number of bets through a tiny window. That’s Julian‘s idea. “All the nice girls melted into one, I think that is the most attractive area. To show off my big personality and space character in a geological way (if you want to talk).” Scratch marks in the left side of his entrance go to the first floor, a table appears in the room with a leather sofa set, dining table on the other side of yen whopping. 4 metres in length and bench, island cooking, open fireplace, decorated party room is perfect for a monkey affair. Huge. Then dining table is removed, the building was renovated and there go all the old woodentops. Up to the second floor for you and a three bedroom experience. Each has a hand job, Tivoli Audio, minimalist modern concept of light and ignorance as to the unity of bedding him.  Upstate New York have a villa Julian has also played with a restaurant there and his bell end of that second house was just a long table full of regret. Fell in love, but not a bell end into the melted part of the story. Because it was already his.

You Are The Dogshit Pressed Into My Shoe

You are the dogshit pressed into my shoe,
I wander down each path and you are there;
At every turn my foot encounters you.

Each day your nasty smell recurs anew,
A fecal bouquet wafting through the air;
You are the dogshit pressed into my shoe.

Every fucking useless thing you do,
Charming as encrusted anal hair;
At every turn my foot encounters you.

I wish you’d fuck right off to Timbuktu,
Be mauled and eaten by a grizzly bear;
You are the dogshit pressed into my shoe.

A rotten piece of bread in the fondue,
A desiccated cat turd on the chair;
At every turn my foot encounters you.

Suppose I took a tub of louse shampoo,
Massaged my life with penitential care;
You’d still be dogshit pressed into my shoe.
At every turn my foot encounters you.