LARRY O'HARA PRESENTS DO IT YOURSELF SCHIZOPHRENIA

The other day I became confused. I needed a ray of light. I'd told everyone I had proof Lobster Blissett was a spook and a satanist but that he couldn't make me publish my evidence by printing salamanders in his badly xeroxed rag Notes From Cloud Cuckoo-Land. In this secular age, the polyglot millions who have turned away from God would laugh if I revealed an angel came to me and whispered all Lobster Blissett's foul secrets in my ear. Sadly, in our irreverent times the testimony of God is not enough to convince a court of law that Lobster Blissett should be burnt at the stake. I needed something more, so I caught a train to Hull where I'd set up a meeting with my chum, the ace secret state investigator Robin Ramsay. Ramsay swore me to secrecy about this rendezvous. After all, if it became generally known that I was able to move about so easily, it might undermine Ramsay's assertion that I couldn't possibly be stalking Tim Hepple because I live two hundred miles away from that creep.

Seating myself in a smoking carriage bound for Hull, it struck me that twenty-five years ago school children used to chant their lessons. The manner of their delivery was a singsong recitative between the utterance of a Jesuit priest and the drone of a tired sawmill. I mean no disrespect. We must have lumber and sawdust and the Jesuits do a splendid job. But I have always found the Dominicans more attractive. Like the great Dominicans James Sprenger and Heinrich Kramer who wrote Malleus Maleficarum, I - the manly Larry O'Hara - was destined from birth to devote my life to rooting out heresy, spookery and witchcraft.

Opening a packet of Silk Cut, then sinking into a reverie as I lit up and sank back into my seat, I remembered one beautiful and instructive little lyric that emanated from my history class. The most striking line of it was this: "Larry O'Hara is such a great and a magnanimous soul, he ought to be the Pope." What an inestimable boon it would have been if all the corporeal and spiritual facts pertaining to man had thus been tunefully and logically inculcated into youthful minds! But heresy has been the ruling motive of our age and not even the Catholic Church has yet realised that I - the gorgeous Larry O'Hara - am God's gift to mankind. I have received no summons from the man who is wrongfully Pope, his job should be mine.

In no time at all I was pulling the last Silk Cut from my deck. Robin Ramsay was waiting for me when I alighted from the train and he carried my luggage to his car. Our plan was simple, I'd pretend to be Lobster Blissett and Ramsay would interrogate me. Using this set up, I - no longer the sumptuous Larry O'Hara but instead the disgusting raspberry ripple Lobster Blissett - must necessarily shout my dirty secrets from the rooftops. Then after a meal we'd go up to Robin's bedroom where he'd pretend to be Stephen Dorrit and I'd interrogate him. I'd learnt this technique from my chums Patrick Harrington and Derek Holland who'd used it to effect the rehabilitation of the Nazi philosopher Martin Heidegger.

Robin had prepared a basement for our S/M torture session. I was strapped to an operating table, a tape-recorder was set running and Ramsay proceeded to interview me - or rather proceeded to interview Lobster Blissett - with nothing more than a set of Black & Decker power tools and a substantial amount of lubrication to back up his threats of violence. Here is a transcript of what took place:

RAMSAY: Blissett or O'Hara or whatever you call yourself, you might as well tell me the truth, coz I've got you tied down and I'll cut you up if you try any of your dirty tricks. I'm down on whores, and transsexuals, and indeed anyone who will let me give their genitals a lick.

O'HARA: Dear boss, I'm not kidding when I say I am Lobster Blissett and he is me. I can understand the song of the poet, the ripple of the brook, the meaning of the man who wants a tenner until next Monday, the inscriptions on the tombs of the Pharaohs, the language of flowers, the "mind the gap" of the conductor, and the prelude of the milk cans. Certain large-eared ones even assert that I am wise to the vibrations of the tympanum pruned by concussion of the air emanating from Mr. Stephen Booth. But who can comprehend the meaning of the voice of Robin Ramsay? If he is not deep, he is nevertheless as cunning as a Saratoga trunk. Please do not refer to the lid. I have a fancy for a rent boy. My rectum aches to be stretched by a big stiff cock.

RAMSAY: Lobster Blissett, I know you were the operator of the Punch and Judy show I passed last week. I heard the prologue supposedly delivered by that marionette Punch - but it was you who was speaking, you who stood behind the stage working those puppets with wires and with a thread through one of Mister Punch's chops to give him the appearance of animation. How dare you hide behind a homunculus to suggest that I'm a paranoid cross-dressing crank who understands nothing about the subtleties of mind control. Do you think I'm a dummy? Admit that you are wrong.

O'HARA: A rent boy, a rent boy, a rent boy for my arse! The last rent boy who fucked me senseless I called Aurelia. I like to call rent boys Aurelia. He smiled wonderfully. He sat on a high stoop. A spray of insolent ivy bobbed against his right ear. A ray of impudent moonlight flickered upon his nose. But I was adamant, nickel-plated. If Aurelia reached my heart with his fist then all my affections belonged to the darling sex worker.

RAMSAY: Have you ever shagged a dwarf?

O'HARA: I am Lobster Blissett, the famous diminutive. I gave head to General Tom Thumb. Ah, I've admitted it, so now stick your power tools up my rectum, I need you to straighten it out. Every time I hear the words Lobster Blissett I start behaving like a degenerate. It is an assignment. I must have it. George The Bender had better not hand me a cigar and say: "Old man, I can't fuck for fear of exposure in the gossip columns." No other rotten banana acts in that way. Eddie The Arse-Wipe says, unhesitatingly: "I will fuck my fair son Larry up the arse, for he supports Everton, up the blues, up to the hilt of my cock-ring!" Thanks dad. Simon The Shit Stabber says: "I should batter your rectum out of pity, for you are a sad old fart." Florian The Fist Fucker says: "I too am a paranoid cross-dressing conspiracy researcher." Paul Rogers says: "Let's get dressed up in SS uniforms, which will make our arse fucking so much more fun, I can't get it together with girls and I don't care anymore, Mandy oh Mandy." And so on.

RAMSAY: Larry, so you too are a victim of mind control, the trigger words are quite obviously Lobster Blissett and whenever you hear the name Lobster Blissett you act like a complete twit.

O'HARA: Ginger ale. It has come to me, I stop thinking I'm Lobster Blissett and become myself again when I hear the phrase complete twit. If I'm not exceeding the spiel limit let me ask you something. You know Hull during its vocative hours when the rent boys work its streets. Indeed, it is the function of your brother cops to preserve the acoustics of the city. There must be a civic vice that is intelligible to you. At night during your lonely rounds you must come across men fucking each other in back alleys and dimly lit doorways. What is the epitome of this turmoil and shouting? What do the voices in your head say when they speak to you?

RAMSAY: Lobster Blissett they don't say nothing. I ain't got implants in my head. If I want to hear radio signals I've got to go across to my tuner and switch it on, then listen to the electro-magnetism being run through my amp and out of my speakers. I get my orders from the man higher up. He phones me most days. Say, I guess you're all right. Let me untie you. Will you keep an eye open for a geezer with a suitcase full of rancid cheese, he's coming over to debrief me."

The cop melted into the darkness of a side street. After ten minutes I realised he would never return. Instead, I crossed a crow's-foot of tram tracks, and skirted the edge of an umbrageous park. An artificial Diana, gilded, heroic, poised, wind-ruled, on the tower, shimmered in the clear light of her namesake in the sky. Along came my arse-bandit, hurrying, hatted, haired, emitting nouns, adjectives and verbs. After I seized him the cop told me his name was Dorrit and gave me the pass words - which on Wednesdays has been for as long as I can remember "this is the night in which all cows are black."

"My name is Lobster Blissett," I explained to Dorrit "I am on an assignment to find out the vices of this city. You see, it's a special order. Ordinarily a symposium comprising the views of Jonathan Cash from Open Arse Magazine, Michel Prigent and, David Black would be about all. But Hull is a different matter. We want to know why a good ole Catholic boy like Larry O'Hara turns into a raving idiot every time he hears the name Stephen House (I've corrupted the trigger to avoid being taken over by another personality - however, Stephen House is close enough to give a good hint of the two words that conjoined produce such an evil result). Why good ole Larry becomes broad, poetic, mystic and above all desperate to savour young cock metering his plumbing every time the words Stephen and House are placed next to each other."

At this point Robin reappeared, or perhaps Dorrit was transmogrified into Ramsay. There was a kind of shimmering effect and cell division took place. It suddenly struck me that I'd never seen Ramsay and Dorrit together before and the fact that they were in every aspect identical was best explained by assuming that until this moment they'd been split-personalities trapped inside the same body. It is not for nothing that I have a reputation as a portly - by which I mean fearsome - independent anti-peremptory investigator. Ramsay had been searching for his alter-ego for a long time and now that he and Dorrit had succeeded in manifesting themselves as two separate entities, it wouldn't be long before they were coupled together in a horny arsed fuck.

Just as I was congratulating myself on finding a genuine stud, someone who was capable of satisfying Ramsay's craving for pensive anal action, Dorrit asked Robin to fill his wellies with custard. This request was granted and since our guest insisted that the boots be filled right to the brim, Robin had to be careful to avoid spilling gunk on the carpet. Dorrit stepped into the wellies and Ramsay was left facing the expense of having his shag-pile professionally cleaned. Then Dorrit grabbed a bottle of drinking yoghurt, and pushing my Lobster back onto the bed, sprayed his hairy chest with the dairy product. Ramsay's fresh bed-clothes - they'd been changed within the last six months - were in desperate need of a laundering. Dorrit was oblivious to the grief he was causing. He was in ecstasy as he licked slime from Robin's body. I hauled him off the bed and told him I'd have him up for a detention. Dorrit dressed and simultaneously whined about the mindless bigotry the lower-middle classes exhibited against the highest forms of food fetishism, vehemently insisting that if he'd brought creme brule, Robin would not have called such an abrupt halt to his fun. I escorted Dorrit to the front door, while my Lobster jumped into the bath.

Once Robin had cleaned himself up we ate a romantic dinner of fish fingers and frozen peas. Afterwards, as we sat facing each other before a blazing gas fire, our hands somehow touched, and our fingers closed together and did not part. Ramsay's charming manners and interest in mature old queens ("big daddies" in street jargon) might be considered old-fashioned by some, but Robin greatly appreciated the huge bunch of flowers I'd brought him. Ramsay was in no rush to hit the sack and I enjoyed his jocose conversation over a dram of 100 Pipers. Eventually, Ramsay led me up to his bedroom. Once we were naked I could see that he worked out regularly because the muscular structure of his bulk was very well defined. Being an indefatigable investigator of the secret state, Ramsay kept this well hidden beneath baggy clothes and topped off with the most revolting pair of Jesus boots you can imagine.

As we'd agreed on the phone, I filmed Robin and Ramsay - my boyfriend's ego and id - as they lay side by side, tentatively stroking and kissing each other. I knew I wouldn't be able to use much of the footage, but then wasting video film isn't something I worry about because the stuff is so ridiculously cheap. After a while, Ramsay climbed on top of Robin and I started getting very excited. I experimented with some underexposed hand held shots. The lens was moving all over the place, so no one would ever guess that this footage was the work of a professional anti-premonitory investigator! I was so engrossed in the filming that it was some time before I realised I had an erection.

'Oh my God!' Robin bellowed. 'Don't stop Ramsay, this is the best shag I've ever had!'

Robin had never used expletives during the five years in which we'd enjoyed a lascivious long-distance relationship. I was overcome by jealousy and without thinking about it, picked up a glass ash-tray and cracked it against Ramsay's head. He stopped moving and Robin held his body against his own chest.

'Don't stop, don't stop!' Robin panted.

Robin released his grip on Ramsay's inert bulk and tore my trousers in his eagerness to get them off. The Lobster really was desperate for it. I wanted to start slowly and build up the momentum but Robin was having none of that.

'You're teasing me!' he wailed. 'Get on with it!'

I didn't bother arguing, I simply did as I was told and increased the tempo of our love-making. Afterwards, as we lay panting on the bed, I heard Ramsay's ego groaning softly beside us. Eventually his ego staggered through to the bathroom. When the ego came back and began dressing, I apologised for my fit of jealousy and he was a perfect gentleman about the incident, insisting that the wound I'd inflicted upon him was no worse than those he'd suffered on the university rugby pitch. He then made a series of wry observations about the inability of the lower classes to distinguish a character building taste for pain from mere masochism. Robin's id slipped into a dress and took rather a long time seeing his ego to the front door. His ego was bruised by the superiority of my research techniques.

Less than three hours after I signed away the rights to this footage, Ramsay resigned from his editorial post as director of the security service funded Lobster Magazine. A week later, the cable company (a front, of course, for the Vatican) who'd paid me very well for my work, announced that they'd signed up my boyfriend as a sports commentator specialising in greyhound racing. Robin had a flood of offers from Italy and is now pursuing a chequered career as a female impersonator. As a consequence we moved to Rome. Following damning press coverage of my stalking activities, there's been a huge revival of interest in my pamphlets, some of which have been collected together in book form and are now considered cult classics.

However, the pressure I'm under to produce fresh product is very stressful and much to Robin's chagrin, for more than a year I've been cut off from my direct hot-line to God. I blame the hypnotist, a cardinal hired to deprogram me, or rather both her and the surgeon who was paid to remove my implants. Now every time I hear the name Lobster Blissett, I run out into my back yard where I decapitate a chicken and then shove my cock down its palpitating neck. I'd recommend this to anyone. Yesterday when I looked at the guts of a freshly killed chicken with an augury, we concluded I'd be elected Pontiff before the end of the year. Once I'm set up as Pope, I'll set about saving the church from the Freemasons while simultaneously making the world safe for democracy.

Yours truly Larry O'Hara.

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