Jesus & the Twisted Generation

Ida Sputum

Description

From a childhood of drug smuggling, porn, violence and Rock ‘n Roll, to an adulthood of more violence, GBH, stripping, punk, drugs, DRAMA CLUB, Rock ’n Roll, rape, alienation, mental institutions, invention, abortions, kidnap by press, infamy, plus heinously unfunny comedians, (names of some places and people are changed to protect the publisher from lawsuits brought by the guilty), Bob Crumpton, Franklyn Chancer,. Funny ones too; John Cooper-Clarke, Ian Cognito, Barbara Nice, Andy Robinson and Milo McCabe get a mention. Olympic skier, Alan Schoenberger too and Aaron Barschak. Leading to repentance, redemption and salvation in Jesus Christ.
Ida Sputum takes you to the dark heart of comedy, out of its anus and into fertilizer, leaving you refreshed and hopeful for the human spirit. Finishing with a story of my great friend, the late and lovely rocker, Dave Kusworth and more…to be continued.

Sujets

• Personal Memoirs
• Comedy
• Biography
• Rock and roll
• Autobiography
• Ida

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris AU
• Date de parution: 08 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669833482
• Langue: English

Extrait

JESUS & THE TWISTED GENERATION
 
A Killer Stripper, A Cult Comedian & Rock‘n’Roll
 
 
 
 
 
IDA SPUTUM
 
Copyright © 2023 by Ida Sputum.
 
Library of Congress Control Number:
2022922594
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-3350-5

Softcover
978-1-6698-3349-9

eBook
978-1-6698-3348-2
 
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
Rev. date: 12/17/2022
 
 
 
Xlibris
AU TFN: 1 800 844 927 (Toll Free inside Australia)
AU Local: [phone] ([phone] from outside Australia)
www.Xlibris.com.au
848800
 
JESUS & THE TWISTED GENERATION: A KILLER STRIPPER, A CULT COMEDIAN & ROCK N ROLL.
From a childhood of drug smuggling, porn, violence and rock‘n’roll, to an adulthood of more violence, GBH, stripping, punk, drugs, DRAMA CLUB, rock‘n’roll, rape, alienation, mental institutions, invention, abortions, kidnap by press, infamy, plus heinously unfunny comedians, (names of some places and people are changed to protect the publisher from lawsuits brought by the guilty), Bob Crumpton, Franklyn Chancer. Funny ones too; John Cooper-Clarke, Ian Cognito, Barbara Nice, Andy Robinson and Milo McCabe get a mention. Olympic skier Alan Schoenberger and wild Aaron Barschak. Leading to repentance, redemption and salvation in Jesus Christ.
Ida Sputum takes you to the dark heart of comedy, out of its anus and into fertiliser, leaving you refreshed and hopeful for the human spirit. Finishing with a story of my great friend, the late and lovely rocker, Dave Kusworth and more to be continued.
 
This book is dedicated to Billy Button 1961-2021.
The only man that ever told a rapist to leave me alone. Billy was a musician and always wore a cape he’d had specially designed. With his cape flying he kicked off the rapist’s front door and marched up to his flat where the rapist cowered behind his door chain. “LEAVE IDA ALONE! There’s loads more of us”. (There was only ever Billy, no other man would help). All I’d asked of the rapist was to be left alone, but the rapist had seen me in town and spat red drink all over me. The rapist called the cops and the cops let us go free. The rapist never dared to even look at me again.
Billy Button I love you forever.
To Adele Cooper, you made my father’s final years wonderful in his super shed in your garden with your fantastic meals and great friendship. Thank you.
To Judy Davis, thank you for respecting me.
To Jodie Mercer, Nicole Ford & Jade Douglas thank you for your computer skills in making this book.
B IRTH;
Medical professionals were amazed when, unaided, I climbed out of mother with a merry cry of, “Make way boys!!! I’m coming through!”, seized a medical instrument, severed my own umbilical cord, tottered out of Derby City Hospital, ran to the Social Services and put myself up for adoption pronto.
Aah... would that it were, would that it were.
Oh who am I trying to kid? Sat here like I’m some middle-class writer, all poised as if pensively staring out of a picture window at my wildly bucolic garden, as befitting a woman of my years and inclinations. HA! Really, the other night, naked due to the Australian heat, and the heat from a naked Australian who remains platonic, I confronted three hooded men in my backyard. One had a dagger in his hand.
“WHADDYA DOING!??”, I roared. Breaking my frangipani, they scarpered over the 6ft fence that hems my home. (I don’t like being hemmed).
They ran down the back lane screaming about the scary nude Teletubby, yelling, “My eyes!! Take my eyes! Therapy!” Unlike my striptease dancing days, medication has given me a belly and I don’t care. All they got was a tobacco pouch off the outside table.
I’ve been in fight or flight mode for 53 years damn it. 50 years staunchly UNMEDICATED I’ll have you know! Those punks haven’t a clue of the monsters I’ve fought, I thought. (I generally lost against the monsters, but mentally I just about survived!). Then yesterday and this morning I found piss all over my front door, festooning the flywire, a urine waterfall flowing down the path. Big bladder! LOADS of piss. Or maybe they all pissed in unison? Just to let me know they’re kings of this manor. Anyway, the police on the phone added it to my incident number. A month I’ve been here. Somehow I’ll get this book written. Tony Martin, jailed for defending his English farm from robbers, ‘I feel you’ man.
(I’d like to report that the piss transpired to be from the reticulated garden sprinkler and all’s well, but I can’t. The sprinkler doesn’t hit the door. It was yellow piss from miscreants.
UK CLASS SY STEM;.
Aged about seven, on seeing a famous comedy sketch with John Cleese, and the Two Ronnies, Barker and Corbet, acting as men who were working class, middle class and upper class, I asked my dad which class are we? His answer was clever. He thought for a moment and replied with a smile, “Lucky. We’re just lucky”. That was enough for me. No socioeconomic bracket for me thank you very much. I was lucky. Magic! Hurrah! Happily deluded and would continue to disregard the class system forever. Or try to.
BIRTH; Take 2. Rea lity.
In fact birth was ooooh! Difficult.
1964 September, Sunday 6.00am. Derby City Hospital. Evicted by forceps from my happy place inside mother. A sense of foreboding must have informed me as my cranium was gripped by cold steel prongs, leaving bruises and crossed eyes for days. Weighing eight pounds, three ounces, the eldest child of five, I popped out to the cacophony of hospital implements on metal dishes and echoing voices, a surge of sounds, like water leaving your eardrums at the swimming pool. Our twenty year old mother needed eight stitches which I was regularly reminded of throughout my contact with her. Eight eight eight!
It was better inside than out.
Inside, the rosy glow of the English Midlands summer could be seen through the membranes of mothers tummy. Outside I was called, ‘a mistake’, and given a plastic bottle of formula. (Lucky to get anything these days!)
Perfectly healthy, I was placed in an incubator, a perspex cloche over me like a display in a museum. There weren’t any cots left at the maternity hospital. So unlike the other incubating babies, my eyes were wide open and I could see a man in a white coat with a clipboard. As it goes.
If he’d interviewed me I’d have said, “Aren’t I supposed to be breastfed roundabout now?” (At the Pompidou Centre in Paris as a child, I saw the painting by Jackson Pollock entitled ‘Birth’. Perfectly capturing my experience of being born).
By the age of seven, sporadic physical attacks from mother left me with the countenance of one who lived with gun-less guerilla warfare. Standard fare. Never knew when or why. Cold. Like the Pink Panther and Kato his sparring partner, except not evenly matched in size or height and I wasn’t paying mother to train me in Martial Arts.
Her favourite trick was to grab my head and smash it against the porcelain bathroom sink of whichever house we lived in.
I’d try to fight and pull my head away but she was much bigger with a strong hold on my head. Confusion, head-ringing pain, then back outside to play with our street gang(s) again. Didn’t occur to me to discuss it with anyone, being a child I just absorbed it as what mums did. Child-line didn’t exist and Mum always told me not to tell tales. Her stock response to most things I said was “Don’t tell tales!” But like all psychos, mother had her neutral days towards me. (I fondly liked to believe). Dad hit me too but rarely and never full force.
DEAR READER, you may say, “WHO CARES about your childhood, your young friends, your God-given talents, the porn and strange people in your childhood home? We want famous people and the salacious details of your adult life!”
My reply is that you may skip ahead and also have a hard look at yourselves. But you’d be missing the point that without my autonomous discipline to train myself in gymnastics and art, I would not have had the God-given strength of character and humour to survive the violent cracks to my cranium from my mother and ensuing onslaught of further cranial and bodily abuse until I was rendered to the state of just a maggot in the dirt. The cultures I saw as a child gave me a sense of perspective. It’s the foundation of my life so please bear with me.
I didn’t look at the little girl at school behind the bike sheds, showing her bottom to boys for a packet of crisps and think to myself, “That looks like a healthy career!” It just ended up that way.
Thank you.
It’s easy to see in retrospect why stripping seemed such a breeze for me. At first when I saw naked hippies in the Welsh countryside commune aged 7, I felt a frisson of naughtiness. Then it became natural. The porn and the naked nubile life mod