Lionel Asbo: State of England Read Online Free PDF

Independent , and the Guardian , Des reached for the Sun , which at least looked like a Lark , with its crimson logo and the footballer’s fiancée on the cover staggering out of a nightclub with blood running down her neck. And, sure enough, on page three (News in Briefs) there was a hefty redhead wearing knickers and a sombrero.
    But then all resemblances ceased. You got scandal and gossip, and more girls, but also international news, parliamentary reports, comment, analysis … Until now he had accepted the Morning Lark as an accurate reflection of reality. Indeed, he sometimes thought it was a local paper (a light-hearted adjunct to the Gazette ), such was its fidelity to the customs and mores of his borough. Now, though, as he stood there with the Sun quivering in his hands, the Lark stood revealed for what it was – a daily lads’ mag, perfunctorily posing as a journal of record.
    The Sun , additionally to recommend it, had an agony column presided over not by the feckless Jennaveieve, but by a wise-looking old dear called Daphne, who dealt sympathetically, that day, with a number of quite serious problems and dilemmas, and suggested leaflets and helplines, and seemed genuinely …
    ‘Dear Daphne,’ whispered Desmond.

 
    5
    TURN THE CLOCK back to January and the eve of his fifteenth birthday.
    Uncle Lionel was out on the balcony, chivvying the dogs. Des, in a white apron (at that time he had done no wrong and knew no guile), was washing up.
    Come out here, Des. Forget you housework … Listen. You forbidden to go to school tomorrow .
    Why’s this, Uncle Li?
    Tell you in the morning … Des. Girls. Have you done it? No, don’t answer. I don’t want to know. Look at you in you white pinny. Fourteen .
    Des was woken by a gust of cigarette smoke. He squinted up with his unfallen eyes. Lionel, in a black mesh T-shirt, boded over him.
    Shove up , he said, and sat. Okay. You a young man now. You fifteen. And an orphan. So you got to listen to you Uncle Li .
    Yeah. Course .
    Right. From this day forth, son, you can borrow me Mac. When I’m out .
    Smiling, Des said thanks, and he meant it. He also had that familiar sense of Lionel as a kind of anti-dad or counterfather.
    But listen . Lionel raised a stubby forefinger. It’s not just for messing around with. I want you to concentrate you efforts .
    On what?
    Porn .
    In common with every other Distonite old enough to walk, Des knew about the existence of pornography on the Web. He had never gone looking for it. Porn, Uncle Li?
    Porn. You see, Des, this is it. You don’t actually need girls. Girls? They more trouble than they worth if you ask me. With the Mac, you can have three new bunk-ups every day – just by using you imagination! And it doesn’t cost you fuck all. Okay. Lecture over. So endeth the first lesson. Just promise you’ll ponder me words. And here’s an extra fiver for yuh .
    Lionel got to his feet. He grinned (a rare occurrence) and said,
    Go on, fill you boots … When I come back tonight, you’ll be holding a white stick. In you hairy palm . His grin deepened. I just hope Jeff and Joe hit it off with you guide dog. And here’s a tip: Fucked-up Facials. Start you off on the right foot. Well, son. Happy birthday. I’m glad we’ve had this talk. It’s cleared the air .
    Des did, in fact, have a quick look at Fucked-up Facials . And the site, he found, was accurately so called: he had never seen anything half so fucked-up in all his life. After gaping his way through thirty seconds of that, he clicked on History. There was no doubt about it. The pornography Lionel watched was in highly questionable taste. So for an hour Des randomly surfed, or foundered, in the Pacific of filth. This surfing or foundering, he realised with a kind of terror, was a way of finding out who you were, sexually, by finding out what you liked – whether you liked what you liked or not.
    And what did he like, Des Pepperdine? Well, his soul instantly and reassuringly