The terror
started when I heard him half whisper “Oi, Jew boy, get over here.” my heart
stopped momentarily and then rapidly thumped in my chest, I crawled along my
bed towards his bed; I had to avoid the floor as he had opened the sash window
at the bottom and he told me a Fox could easily climb into the bedroom and hide
under any of the beds in the room. They did that so they could pounce on their
prey. I looked up at the Bat clinging to the window waiting to come in and bite
me. I hopped and jumped across to his bed just in case the Fox could get me by
the leg or foot and bite me and climbed into his bed. I lay with my back
towards his chest curled into a foetal ball. He tugged my legs downwards so I
had to lay flat on my side and pulled me closer into his chest. He put his
fingers up his anus so that they smelt of faeces. Then he put his faeces
smelling fingers up my nose and rubbed them around my nose and face. He put his
arm tightly around my neck and locked me into a headlock. I could hear the
squab pigeon he had hidden in a cardboard box under the bed scratching away and
slowly dying like I was. I could smell his faeces, his acrid urine smelling
sheet, his body odour and his fetid breath as he held onto me in the ever
tightening headlock. His other hand quickly moved down to my crotch and pulled
my barely formed, eleven year old testicles up over my penis and whispered
“You’re like a little girl now.” Then I felt his soft penis slide between my
legs and he began rubbing it against my perineum, backwards and forwards it
went. His penis rapidly got harder and harder. I could feel him breathing
against my neck, his rank breath mixed with the smell of his urine and his
faeces. I conjured up a Paisley print behind my eyes; I made the pattern
multiply and then made it shrink smaller and smaller until my whole head was
filled with the tiny Paisley print, then I made the pattern swirl and revolve
behind my eyes. Why hadn’t God listened to me and made him die when he was
ill? I had hid in the cupboard at the
top of the stairs when he was ill and prayed that he would die. The Paisley
swirled around behind my eyes and filled my vision. I could still smell his urine,
his faeces, his body odour and his fetid breath puffing against my neck as his penis moved backwards and forwards with his hips. His penis was rubbing against my
anus and perineum as I made the Paisley print swirl and fill my head. Then I
felt the bump I was waiting for and I had floated away and upwards and now I was
looking down on my body; I was above me in the bed and near the ceiling. I
couldn’t smell the urine, his faeces, his body odour and his fetid breath
anymore. I couldn’t feel his erect penis
rubbing along my perineum and anus. I couldn’t feel his arm around my neck. I
couldn’t feel his hand clutching my testicles and pulling them over my penis. I
couldn’t feel anything. I was free and safe. I watched him jolt and jerk as I
floated above the bed and watched as his grip on my neck tightened and his
fetid breath became more rapid. I began to smell his urine and his faeces and
body odour again. I was back in his bed. I could feel his breath on my neck and
somehow he had managed to spit between my legs. How could his head be next to
mine and yet he had managed to spit down there between my legs? Then I felt him
move and his foot was planted in the small of my back and then he violently
pushed me onto the floor and out of his bed to where the Fox could get me. I
was terrified of the Fox. I looked back at the Bat on the window then I hopped
skipped and jumped back to my bed with his spit running down my legs. I
couldn’t let the Fox get me. I couldn’t let the Bat bite me. Bats knew when you
were scared; they could smell it; he had told me that. I climbed into my cold
bed and curled up into a ball and summoned up the Paisley print again and tried
to sleep. I rarely got any sleep in case the Fox or the Bat attacked me. I guess that’s why my teacher had written in a
school report “David must try and take that worried look off his face.” It was
always a fitful sleep until the horror of a new day dawned.
I wrote this Obituary piece for The Guardian about Stanley Green while I was an undergraduate at Goldsmiths' College. I contacted The Guardian and asked them if I could submit it for publication. It was sent off to them and I waited in eager anticipation for their reply. It was published on Wednesday January 26th 1994, the Editor made no changes or additions except by adding some photographs (the photographs used here are later additions by me): "A Consuming Passion.... Stanley Owen Green who has died aged aged 78, was that tall thin man with steel-rimmed glasses who marched it seemed for an eternity up and down London's Oxford Street. It was his banner that made him famous, held high above his head and proclaiming "LESS LUST FROM PROTEIN" in large white letters. Underneath the banner he endured the taunts of sticky schoolchildren and the spittle of office workers alike, to bring his unique, indeed puzzling message to the people of London. He later wate...
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