THE 1996 LARRY O'HARA SHORT STORY COMPETITION WINNER

I really wasn't satisfied with the level of entries in this year's competition. Those entering failed to emulate my deathless prose and seemed to see me as a comic figure, rather than the personage of world historical significance that I undoubtedly am. Therefore, I have decided to award the 100 pound prize money to myself for the following immortal work. Yours, Larry O., London October 1996.

THE TRUE BLUE CONFESSIONS OF LARRY O'HARA, SPOOKBUSTER!

People think there's something romantic about being an anti-Satanist investigator, but the truth is far harsher. Certainly my work is dangerous. If I wasn't a committed Christian, the temptation to indulge in extra-marital relations with everything from hormonally challenged young ladies to demons would be overwhelming. Nevertheless, much of my work is mundane. I do all the things you'd expect any investigative journalist to do. I plough through turgid tomes and write letters soliciting dirt from the family, friends and acquaintances of those sick young men I've targeted for exposure in the pages of the Christian Judge And Juror.

Recently, I've been investigating Luther Blissett of Smooth Productions. Although Blissett claims to be a sophisticate who has made a fortune from repackaging the easy listening sounds of the sixties and seventies, I know for a fact that he once wrote the sleeve notes to Hell Is Other People, an album by the notorious black metal band Nordic Ice Demon. Blissett's flirtation with the Anti-Christ is far more than a simple case of youthful indiscretion. To this day, he hero-worships assorted black metal musicians as minor pagan deities. Worse still, last month a Smooth Productions act called the Moogy Blues topped the charts with a cover of the seventies standard Knights In White Satin. Although the song is a synthesiser instrumental, using sophisticated sound equipment, I was able to isolate the phrase 'lick cunt, it tastes good' which is subliminally buried in the mix.

Blissett came to my attention after he began attacking Christians and family entertainers, such as Cliff Richard. He even had the nerve to call Cliff's celluloid masterpiece Summer Holiday a turkey! Even worse, he has described me as 'mad' just because I have lined my flat with tin foil to ward off the death ray with which Grand Orient Freemasons plan to assassinate me. Blissett has also attacked my book Slugging For Jesus, in which I expose the ways in which the Vatican and the pop industry have been infiltrated by the cult of the all seeing eye, as a deranged plagiarism of Piers Compton and Richard Wurmbrand! Some traditionalist and promoter of family values! Blissett also gambles on the national lottery and visits pubs on Sunday!

The first place my investigations took me was the Fitzrovia Steam Baths. This is the type of place that dedicated Christians avoid like the plague. However, if I was to successfully defend the universal truths of the Catholic doctrine, I had to be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. Of course, heavenly deception isn't really a sin and even if it was, a confession session with Father Harrington would set everything straight with St. Peter. That's the great thing about Catholicism, you can sin as much as you like, as long as you repent afterwards. Fortunately, I don't need to repent since I'm the nearest thing you can be to infallible and yet incredibly remain the most wonderful human being ever to walk the earth.

I have to confess, I was getting pretty steamed up being surrounded by naked young men whose sinful lifestyle led to their being privy to all sorts of bizarre secrets. Although I find anal sex repulsive, it often loosens people up and the humiliation of being rogered is well worth it if you get a really juicy tit-bit of research material as a result. Anyway, I stood up and allowed the towel to fall from around my waist. Then I thrust my posterior in the face of a young lad who'd been sitting across from me.

'Fuck off, you fat ugly bastard!' the ungrateful youth spat.

I flashed several fifty pound notes at the teenager and he quickly changed his tune. Blissett has libellously claimed that I am fat. The truth of the matter is that well-built men are extremely attractive. The youth followed me into the toilets, obviously desperate to make it with such a fine specimen of manhood as myself. The turd burglar threw me to the floor and, with my head in the urinal, took the rocket from his pocket and shoved it up my arse. I knew that I wouldn't be able to sit down for a week, but it was well worth it if I got the information I desired. Everyone, except for me, has a past, and Blissett was no exception.

'Give me the dirt on Luther Blissett,' I rasped as my forehead and front teeth smashed against the china urinal.

'I don't know what the fuck you're talking about,' the boy shot back.

'Tell me something anyway, and I'll pay you double!'

'He's having an affair with your wife's grandmother,' the kid bluffed.

'No good, I'm not married!' I raged.

'Okay,' the shirt-lifter hesitated for a minute, then blurted, 'he's having an affair with his wife's grandmother!'

'The dirty little cocksucker!' I yelled as I shot my load. 'I knew he was a complete pervert. He's failed to live up to the family image he attempts to project and now I'll nail him to his cross!'

As I paid off the shit stabber, I knew all the suffering and humiliation I'd gone through had been well worth it. Now I really had the dirt on Blissett. I decided to confront him immediately at his office. He'd be sorry for all the insults he'd thrown my way when I spilled the beans about his sordid sexual practices. What's more, I'd xeroxed several hundred copies of a stinker of a review that the Smooth Productions re-mix of Go-Moog! Smash Hits by Elektrik Cokernut had received from Pox. There really was no future for Luther Blissett when Pox said his releases were 'boring'. Pox is the authentic voice of youth, so Blissett and his cronies were bound to crumble when I distributed the photocopied review, to which I'd cunningly added the headline: 'NO FUTURE FOR LUTHER BLISSETT AND SMOOTH PRODUCTIONS!'

'I'm afraid Mr Blissett is too busy to see you,' a receptionist lied when I presented myself at the Smooth Productions HQ.

'But I have important questions to put to him about his sex life,' I insisted.

'Luther is too busy to discuss your personal problems,' the bitch sneered.

That was it, I'd show them! I began distributing the slating Smooth Productions had so justly received in Pox. Satin Latin by Norrie Paramor may have been tinkling from concealed speakers but I'd proved these bastards were anything but sophisticated. Unfortunately, no one would take the leaflets I was offering around. Smooth Productions were cringing cowards when confronted with the truth about their sorry throughput. I'd faced the whole world down in my time, so it wasn't going to be difficult to show these creeps who was boss. Luther Blissett wasn't going to get away with calling me a loony! I am the Van Helsing who will drive a stake through this monster's black heart.

'Go on!' I screamed at the receptionist, who'd been pointedly ignoring me for the past thirty seconds. 'Make it a hat-trick, go on, call the police. I dare you to call the frigging police, you Manx bastards! Up the blues! Everton for the cup!'

'You and your fascist chum Paul Rogers,' the redhead hissed, 'drink beer from a bottle while simultaneously pouring a second bottle over your head. Then break both bottles. It's a rather peculiar phenomena - and raises many interesting philosophical questions.'

'Look,' I barked, 'Blissett's art is arresting because the city police are after him for pandering and plagiarism, which are not quite the same even in our philosophy. Blissett also got into trouble recently for calling me "effeminate". He's tried to justify himself by claiming that he thought "effeminate" meant "spirited and hamster-like." Nevertheless, it's obvious he's a stooge of the freemasons, the secret state and ultimately the world-wide Satanic conspiracy being run by the Illuminati. It's clear he's systematically trying to smear me, Larry O'Hara!'

'Are you drunk?' the receptionist was clearly part of the massive, world-wide conspiracy, to insult me, Larry O'Hara, and drag my name through the mud!

I ran out of the reception and into the back lot, where I found a tailor's dummy and a pair of stilts. Ever since my mother imprisoned me as an infant, rather than admit to the family priest that she'd given birth out of wedlock and was not really Caesar Romero, I have felt an overwhelming urge to crawl inside dressmaker's dummies. Suitably disguised, and despite the difficulty of moving about inside the dummy, I got on the stilts and waddled over to Blissett's office window.

'Come, come feel my love muscle!' I cried to attract the Satanist's attention.

'It's a geezer wearing make-up,' Blissett's secretary roared as she lent out of the window.

'I know you're having an affair with your wife's grandmother,' I yelled at Blissett as he leapt up from his desk to get a better view of my angelic form.

'My wife's grandmother died before I was born,' Blissett laughed.

Now I really had something on the bastard! I couldn't wait to reveal to a startled reading public that Blissett was a necrophile! The rent boy who'd originally given me the dirt about Blissett's extra-marital relations had only told me half the story. It took my immense investigative skills to uncover the full extent of his sickness! What a creep! How dare Blissett criticise Cliff Richard, not to mention ME, the IMMORTAL LARRY O'HARA, when he was having his end away with stiffs! In my excitement, I slipped and went crashing towards the window at which Blissett and his secretary were standing. The two Satanists jumped backwards. I tried to get a hold on the window sill. Unfortunately, it was covered with papers and the documents were scattered all over the backyard as I fell with a horrific bump.

After grabbing an armful of this incriminating evidence, I legged it to the nearest bus stop, discarding the tailor's dummy as I ran. I leapt on the first bus to pull in and seated myself on the upper deck. I could feel my hands shaking as I spread the papers across my lap. Here were yet more smears, designed to make me, the wonderful Larry O'Hara, look ridiculous. I felt tears rolling down my cheek as I read through this hate-filled Satanic bile. I began reading a document that was headlined 'OPERA PROJECT: TO BE TOURED INTERNATIONALLY'.

"Larry O'Hara's Mattress is, in a word, the story of a repulsive middle-aged schoolteacher and his overweening fondness for his mattress. Specifically, Larry likes to use his mattress for the purpose of masturbation. A noble theme, and as the opera begins we find Larry and his mattress climbing (Christ and cross theme); then they pause to wash and drink in a mountain brook (not necessarily in that order). Green finches come, and a cocky little ogre (also played by O'Hara) runs back and forth over the acorns, shying quick stones to keep his feet in line, and a Yoni appears, bringing up the rear and looking perhaps for its Lingham, perhaps for tendencies that still keep the barn stacked high with that good pure sensuous form (Pyrola Uniflora). Startled by all the various presences, Larry and his mattress skip away downhill to meet Mike Gold. At this juncture the following duet between Larry's Mattress and Mike Gold is sung (Larry meanwhile remaining in the canyon)

MIKE GOLD: The next second-men stand in the midst of grim lunettes, the sun shines madly, why couldn't we have seen our knees clapping together asking for cigarettes!

LARRY'S MATTRESS: With occasional lighter veins and edges. Face down, this night's juice sets us apart.

MIKE GOLD And two yellows: yolk and wee.

LARRY'S MATTRESS: And the lone and languid voyage ending asleep, lulled within, knee caps mysterious as Gary Cooper's pellets.

BOTH TOGETHER (with operatic vigour): Two knees lulled within! Knee caps mysterious as Gary Cooper's pellets! And two yellows: yolk and wee! And two yellows: yolk and wee! Two yellows: yolk and wee! And two yellows: yolk and wee! AND TWO YELLOWS! Yolk and wee.

PASSING CYLINDER LARVAE HATCH: Well if you insist. (Proceeds to crouch and fry an egg while weeing.)

Meanwhile, back in the cave with the many porters, Larry O'Hara redeems all beings by the very paltriness of his wardrobe (a sort of grass hula skirt and inner tube.) With elaborate hand movements he does the DANCE OF CAGED RIBS AND INADEQUATE BLADDER CONTROL. The porters, who have been standing around passing an army uniform back and forth between them, are amazed by Larry's dance.

FIRST PORTER: This one beats a rat.

SECOND PORTER: Disorder yourself, brother.

FIRST PORTER: Alright. (Proceeds to disorder himself.)

SECOND PORTER (turning to the third): What did I tell you?

THIRD PORTER: When?

SECOND PORTER: As a dose to the businessman.

FOURTH PORTER (breaking in excited): I dated his sister! The summer spoke to me from a hot street of tawny declaw! My smooth bitten-down fingernails scrabbled into the street, lamenting my six or seven arrests.

PASSING CYLINDER LARVAE HATCH: The lone and languid voyage ending asleep etc.

THIRD PORTER (standing back): Are you Solomon Burke?

LARRY O'HARA (steps toward the footlights and sings an aria): Eating mildewed laundry's a sure sign that your brain's sizzling, doing a disappearing act. That disappearance took longer than it should have.'

'They're trying to drive me mad! I, Larry O'Hara, the most selfless and generous human being ever to walk this earth, mumbled in shock as I reeled under the blows of Luther Blissett's intoxicating tactics.

'You are mad!' the bus conductor spat as he came to collect my fare. 'You've been talking to yourself ever since you got on this bus.'

Being such a complete genius, indeed, almost a divine figure, I'd uncovered another spook without even trying. The bus conductor was obviously working for the British state since he was attempting to undermine my sanity. The conspiracy is vast and ever growing but thanks to my unmatched brilliance as an investigative reporter, I'd cracked it. I'd expose them all, the spivs and the perverts, the spies and the Satanists. I'd make them regret that they'd even been born! I'd write and mail out xeroxed leaflets about them! I hadn't even started yet! I'm not vindictive, I'm just giving the bastards a taste of their own medicine. Okay, so a lot of them aren't Satanists, at least not practising Satanists - but that didn't matter. They'd failed to treat me with the enormous respect I deserve, that's enough. I've set myself up as judge and jury, so they won't get off lightly. Watch out world because here I come!

Larry O'Hara stars in Stereo Love

Larry O'Hara presents Do It Yourself Schizophrenia

Lenny McHara's Revelations

Unpopular Books on Larry O'Hara

Stewart Home on Larry O'Hara

Feuds