Fucked by Rock b/w I Have the Greatest Respect for You, George: The Unimaginable Confessions of Zodiac Mindwarp

Fucked by Rock b/w I Have the Greatest Respect for You, George: The Unimaginable Confessions of Zodiac Mindwarp

by Mark Manning

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781909454484
Publisher: Cherry Red Books
Publication date: 07/01/2016
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 276
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Mark Manning is the coauthor with Bill Drummond of the Bad Wisdom trilogy, and the author of the novella Get Your Cock Out.

Read an Excerpt

Fucked By Rock

By Mark Manning

Cherry Red Books

Copyright © 2016 Mark Manning
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-909454-48-4



I Have The Greatest Respect For You, George

The 1970s and the North of England

As remembered by Mark Manning

Sounds Of The Seventies

I'm Jack.
I see you are having no luck catching me.
I have the greatest respect for you, George,
but Lord, you are no nearer catching me now than four years
ago when I started.
I reckon your boys are letting you down, George.
They can't be much good can they?
The only time they came near catching me was a few months
back in Chapeltown, when I was disturbed.
Even then it was a uniformed copper, not a detective.

This was the terrible acapella mantra that haunted West Yorkshire throughout the mid nineteen seventies.

I warned you in March that I'd strike again.
Sorry it wasn't in Bradford.
I did promise you that, but I couldn't get there.
I'm not sure when I will strike again, but it will definitely be
sometime this year, maybe September, October or even
sooner if I get the chance.
I'm not sure where. Maybe Manchester. I like it there.
There's plenty of them knocking about.

A crackly cassette recording aired through antique P.A. systems in pubs and shopping centres, and on local tv and radio stations, usually accompanied by some audio or video footage of George Oldfield, the top Yorkshire cop at the time who seemed to be getting all the blame for not having superpowers and being able to catch this elusive metaperve who was ripping the shit out of all our local whores.

They never learn, do they George?
I bet you've warned them.
But they never listen.
At the rate I'm going, I should be in the Book of Records.
I think it's eleven up to now, isn't it?

Badness swam like poisoned eels around my 1970s teenage frequency.

Well, I'll keep on going for quite a while yet.
I can't see myself being nicked just yet.
Even if you do get near, I'll probably top myself first.
Well, it's been nice chatting to you, George.

Jack The Ripper

Bad sex. Bad drugs. Bad education.

No use looking for fingerprints - you should know by now
it's as clean as a whistle.
See you soon. 'Bye.
Hope you like the catchy tune at the end. Ha Ha

This isn't a book about the Bingley ubercreep, but it plays out pretty much exclusively in his shadow.

I Didn't Exist

I went back to school after the summer holidays. Nobody had told me I was supposed to have left. Not even my parents.

"Mum" 'What?'

"They didn't call my name out in registration today" I didn't make a fuss, she probably had other things on her mind, I'd given up on my semi-literate parents long before they'd given up on me.

I wandered the corridors, sat in on lessons that I wasn't supposed to be in, no one seemed to notice.

"Manning, didn't you leave last term?" Some master eventually questioned me. I gave him the blank stare and waited for whatever happened next.

The careers information teacher went through the hastily jotted biro information about my single-minded non achievement and jettisoned me headlong into the rest of my life.

Bradford Art College. I was brilliant at drawing. If only I had paid more attention in the proper lessons.

Mildly Foxtacular

Art School was groovy.

Kind of like regular school, except that you could smoke in class and there was no arithmetic.

Hormonal turbulence, however, was not. The one-eyed tumescent distraction that is the bane of every acne ravaged adolescents life was everywhere. Leering down lasciviously from the top shelves of cornershop newsagents, pasted with sperm across huge billboards, giant knickered women having orgasms on the bonnets of cars, eating chocolate.

And over there, demon hormonal turbulence snickered amongst the pointy nippled hippy chicks in their skinny t-shirts, the ones who got the hump when their brazen display worked and got them noticed.

I've always noticed small things.

I tend to ignore all the other useful shit that enables people to get on.

To succeed.

To get a life.

My muse is fiercely independent, and not a little perverse.

Sitting at my desk one day, window gazing, not listening to a thing the lecturer was blarging on about.

Dear Martina, written in scratchy ink, it said on my desk, I love you, Signed, A Secret Admirer.

This was interesting. Shades of Emily Bronte and blushing passion. Martina, petite, blonde, not really my type, but I could understand that she was mildly foxtacular.

Who had scribbled this fey confession on my desk? It didn't take long to figure out. It was Charlie.

Charlie collected men's magazines, lived with his parents, had an imaginary girlfriend and a spectacular scouse perm. He was the first friend I made at art school, before I started hanging out with the glue sniffers. Tech drawing students, ordinary lads. They sat around the snack bar talking about sex, fighting, technical drawing and football all day. Sniffing Evo Stik.

They all lived in Bingley. Which was where Peter Sutcliffe was secretly domiciled. Peter Sutcliffe. The Yorkshire Ripper.

Glue sniffing, football and sexcrime. I don't know, it just seems relevant. Charlie and his creepy wankmags as well.

I came of age in a weird place.

His Name Was Wanker Sam. And He Was Legend

It wasn't Strawberry Fields, and thank God it wasn't forever.

I lived at the other end of The Leeds and Liverpool Canal. Dogshit Fields. My childhood summers were often spent swimming amongst its fetid tranquility. Unwanted mongrels, they floated arse-ways up because of the sack of rocks tied around their necks. Tails jaunty, bone showing where the hair and skin had slithered off.

There amongst the rotting fish, used johnnies, fag packets, bits of broken polystyrene and sour milk bottles I would close my eyes and imagine that I was swimming in the iridescent, blue seas of the Caribbean. When I bumped into Pongo's dead arse I realised quickly that I was still in Armley.

The Leeds and Liverpool Canal was a magical place for a child. Despite the Paedos. Thousands of them there were. Whole feral tribes hiding in the bushes, lurking beneath railway bridges like demented, knobbish Trolls. All over the bleeding place, clutching sacks of wine gums, puppies and kittens. There was one though, one that stood out taller than the rest.

His name was Wanker Sam. And he was legend.

"Quick! Quick!" Would herald the cry "Wanker Sam! He's on the park! Under the railway bridge!" The horn was sounded and the hunt would be on..... Off we would race, we barking Sam hunters, up back streets and out across main roads, charging headlong into Armley Park, tumbling down the golf course only to discover that our cunning and elusive prey had eluded us yet again.

If we were lucky we might just catch a fleeting glimpse of the fiendish, worm-burping Yeti disappearing into the spectral mists that hovered around the banks of the Leeds and Liverpool. The usual debris of Sam's sordid existence, fag ends, shit stained underpants and gay spankmags scattered around on the overgrown towpath.

Wanker Sam was a fascinating figure to the kids of Armley. A kind of spunkish bogeyman. Because none of us had actually seen him, but we knew kids who knew kids who had seen him, all kinds of rumours surrounded this strange supernatural masturbator.

He had yellow, pointed teeth and was a cannibal who, after bumming kids to death, would use their arse to make his bread. Occasionally Sam would be spotted on some obscure stretch of the canal violently strangling his ghastly turkey-neck with one hand whilst dispensing Embassy Regal with the other.

Of course everyone claimed to know of at least one kid who had been caught by Wanker Sam and taken off to his terrible buggery den deep in Bramley forewoods. Blood curdling tales involving eels and pitbull terriers circulated around the park concerning the fate of those who had been snared by The Sam.

Things are different these days of course, Sam and his tribe have gone deeper into the woods. Some people, somewhat optimistically, believe that his kind is extinct.

Wrong. Very wrong.

Not so long ago, before anybody really believed these gruesome creatures existed (outside the terrible imaginations of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm that is), they remained free as birds. Free to cavort amongst the bushes and roam the canal banks indulging to their hearts content their sodomistical pursuits. They frolicked merrily with the local kiddies, a joyous song in their hearts, not a care in the world.

Appropriate job opportunities were myriad for these nurturers of the inner child. All kinds of well paid employment to keep themselves and their little friends in winegums and fags.. Swimming instructor, Boy scout leader, Youth worker, Ice Cream man, Butlins Redcoat, DJ, Pop Singer.

The opportunities for a wanker to indulge his furtiveness seemed endless. To live and be a pervert in the innocent 1970's when old men who took a keen interest in children and their world were considered kindly old granddads with pockets full of Worthingtons and Willesdens cricket almanacs. Camping down in the forest singing songs around the roaring fire, bangers sizzling away in the frying pan, up to the nuts in a favourite tenderfoot.

But all good things must come to an end, and sure enough it didn't take long before old Sidney Cooke and his friends at The News of The World eventually blew the gaffe on this whole rumbumptious frolic.

The demise of the paeds' and the newspapers' symbiotic relationship, forged in troughs of equally escalating venality, one for pre pubescent arse and one for sales figures, forced poor old Sam underground.

Forewarned and fore armed as those altruistic nice people at The News of the World would have us believe.

But Sam, he's a cunning beast; it'll take more than the kind hearted concerns of that eminently respectable Sunday newspaper to purge us of the scourge of the perv.

He's still there, old Samuel Intercourse himself of course. Except he's mutated. A horrible febrile ghost Haunting the fizzing bleeping digital undergrowth of the internet.

Deep down in the luminous depths of the cyber forest. Wanking in his gingerbread house. Be afraid, oh little children and very concerned parents. Be very afraid.

Old Wanker Sam. He's gone electric.

Sister Of No Mercy

Ruth was the first one. Girlfriend, that is.

Mother didn't like her. "She looks like she's from a children's home," said Mother "I don't like her" "Yeah mum" I said, foolishly ignoring her. "She'll break your heart son, mark my words ..." she added, all Miss Haversham with an Embassy Regal.

She was right. Ruth took my heart, stabbed seven swords through it, pissed on it, stamped on it, poured petrol on it and set the fucker on fire. Just because she could.

Some girls seem to mutate from puberty straight into scheming bitchdom without any of that fumbling stupidity and emotional illiteracy that seems to accompany the male of the species.

I mean, lets face it as far as women are concerned, from the moment a guys balls have dropped, he's a sitting duck.

It just seems to come naturally to them. As soon as those flossy little fanny hairs appear on a teenage strumpet's bear cage, she instantly turns into an all-knowing Jezebel. Some secret evil female knowledge is passed down in the blood that grants the dimmest little floozy the nuclear capability to reduce her gibbering male counterpart to a pile of flaccid garbage tissue with a modest couple of swearwords.

Though to be fair, I think this devastating capability shocks and frightens our satanic sisters almost as much as it terrifies the young buck bunnies themselves.

But not for long. Those boy mad sirens soon learn to sharpen their claws. Ruth practised on me. One of the reasons for the bitter, twisted thing you read before you now. I mean lets face it, the male of the species, in things that really matter, doesn't stand a chance.

Cocky the retard strolls out into that big wide world with every intention of striking his mark upon the granite face of some kind of posterity. The strongest dictator.

The most compassionate revisionist. The shining light.

Bonio and Bobby Jerkoff. The world champion tiddlywinks player Nineteen Sixty Six. All goals equally valid. All goals equally futile. His Satanic Sister of No Mercy had his number when he was still in short pants.

Does she give a fuck about tiddlywinks? World domination or feeding the world?

Does she fuck. She has far mewlier, pukier things to fry.

And you, sad brother, shall work in a coalmine and pay in blood for the butter.

The Cacophonous Rage Of Ten Gazillion Misogynistic Penises

(And The Yellow Marigolded Queen Of Hell)

This huge booming roar of male voices, like the end of the world.

"Yorkshire Ripppeear!" Ten-thousand testosterone booze fuelled clowns bellowing insane inside Elland road football ground. "Tehennaah!" They continue, like a herd of ninety million great Wildebeest. "Womeeeinn, Niihihill!"

I had just been to visit my Grandmother, who lived in the shadow of Elland Road and was on my way home to my teenage wife.The cacophonous rage of ten gazillion misogynistic penii echoed around the Aire valley.

What were they so afraid of? Why did they hate women so much? So much that they would celebrate the jolly hobby of Bingley's saddest son. A sad loser whose idea of fun was to batter women to death with a hammer.

"Is that you, you useless poet arse bastard?" Screamed my wife as I entered our small terraced house. "Yes dear" I said, like a husband. "Have you got a job yet, you useless piece of male shite?!" "Well I looked in the poetry section at the job centre" "Poetry section?" She sneered, eyes permanently ceilingward, where disdain lived. It was hard finding poetry jobs in West Yorkshire. Especially in the seventies. "My mother's in the other room, she wants a word with you" Oh hell, oh deep festering hell of male ball torture, the mother in law.

"You've got an interview, Monday morning, with Bradford buses" snarled Les Dawson. "What? Writing poetry, for Bradford buses?", me. "No, you silly beggar, as a conductor" "But I don't know anything about conducting" "Good God" she sneered, as if she could smell shit on her top lip "A waste of space is what you are, aren't you?". Grizelda Hitlerdyke, world's toughest mother in law.

Grizelda, she had me down for what I was. Knew what I was like. "I'll tell you what he's like; Useless he is. Fucking useless. Softy little art school poetry boy. Never headbutted a fucking coal face in his whole namby pamby Leeds mummy's boy's fucking life".

Not like her Bill. No, her Bill, he were a proper man he was, worked in a coalmine, beat her up every Friday night. Only after his ten pints of pop mind, because he wouldn't do it normal like. Lovely bloke, her Bill was. Lovely bloke.

The next morning, up with the alcoholics, I packed my poetry book and a pencil, just in case I saw anything beautiful in Bradford town centre and felt the need to commit it to verse, and set off past the Shittersby gasworks.

"You'll have to come back tomorrow I'm afraid" said the scowling old bag behind the glass. "But I've got an interview for nine o'clock, look". I showed her my letter. The bane of some poor bastard's life cocked her head and looked at me as if I was the dumbest fucker on earth, her brows lifted slightly and she nodded in the direction of the huge clock on the wall. "And before you start" she said "I don't make the rules" then paused, waited for aggro, received none, and continued "You'll have to come in tomorrow" The minute hand indicated that I was two minutes late; it was two minutes past nine. "Oh right" I muttered. This was obviously a proper job.

"Well? Did you get it?" Les Dawson Grizelda Hitlersdyke was still there, surrounded by thunderclouds and rain. "Erm, no, but I didn't not get it" I offered, terrified of the most scary woman in Bradford. She even hoovered her curtains.

"What do you mean you didn't not get it? What's he on about mam?" jabbed the junior half of this stereo nightmare. "I don't know, what are you on about you little turd who is not good enough for my daughter and who does things to her with that horrible, horrible thing that he keeps hidden in his filthy, dirty trousers?" demanded the yellow marigolded Queen of Hell.

"Well I was two minutes late, I think its a punctuality thing, them being public transport and all that.." I mumbled.

"Eh? You what? What are you talking about you ruination of my daughter who was supposed to marry someone with a good job so that I wouldn't have to worry about her when I was old and incontinent, smelling horrible, with Alzheimer's, unable to hoover my curtains and all the myriad other pathological foibles women of my class and spiritual meanness are prone to?" kind of shouted the most horrible woman that ever truly was born in the world.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about" I replied, thinking about the swooping kestrel I'd spotted walking home past the Shittersby gasworks. Maybe I'd write a poem about it when all the horrible women went to bed.

"Course you don't, you daft 'bugger. Bloody hell girl, give me my coat, I'm off home, our Bill'll want his tea. I don't know what you see in that lanky streak of blue piss, I really don't....."

Hitler's daughter went to bed. I turned on the radio. Quietly.

"I have the greatest respect for you, George", a creepy voice slithered out.

He'd done another one. The Yorkshire ripper. Secret hero of all put upon men.

I cracked a sneaky can.


Excerpted from Fucked By Rock by Mark Manning. Copyright © 2016 Mark Manning. Excerpted by permission of Cherry Red Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents


Title Page,
I am the yorkshire ripper,
BOOK ONE: I Have The Greatest Respect For You, George,
Sounds Of The Seventies,
I Didn't Exist,
Mildly Foxtacular,
His Name Was Wanker Sam. And He Was Legend,
Sister Of No Mercy,
The Cacophonous Rage Of Ten Gazillion Misogynistic Penises,
He Was Drunk And You Were Leading Him On,
Long Live Che Guevara,
Tough Guys,
Another Greasy Morning,
Heil Hitler, Sweetie,
The Bastards From Hell Vs. The Arse Crack Tigers,
Schools For Weirdos,
Holding Your Ale,
National Venereal Diseasism,
Slum Dwellers,
Ameliorating Hosannas,
Little Puff From Art School,
Hey Hey, We're The Scumbags,
Painted Black Bedrooms,
First Mistake,
First Gig,
Magic Skinhead Boots,
Banging Mrs Merton,
The Old Crown,
Meanwhile, Back At The Slaughterhouse,
Plain Clothes Paedophile,
Evil Nursey Nursey With The Black, Black Eyes,
Poncing Around In The Paedophile's Jungle,
BOOK TWO: Fucked By Rock,
It All Goes Horribly Right,
... And Bugger The Charred Remains,
Love On The Road,
The Box,
Oh God, One Of The Tuggers Is Trying To Talk To Me,
Sex and Shit and Rock and Roll,
Boy Band,
The Naming Of Names,
Tuggers And Toreros,
Country Boy Love,
To The Manor Bored,
Bible Of Dreams,
One Monkey, One Stick Of Dynamite And A Box of Matches,
Fucking Cashew Nuts,
Testosterone Tornado,
A Bucket Of Piss,
My Bloody Valentines,
I'm Going To Tell The Feminists,
Jack Daniels Rasta,
World's Longest Wank,
Accidental Homo,
No Tennants Super On The Rider Again. Never, Ever.,
Pothead Wanker,
The Worst Thing That Could Happen To Anyone In The World. Ever,
The Boys In The Support Band,
Fashion Wankers,
One Inch Baby,
Piss Christ,
Nightmare And Her Hellish Clan,
Room Full Of Rock Stars,
Wives On Tour. Wrong,
A Knife Fell Out My Pocket,
The Seven Deadly Bassisms,
The Choc Vid,
Ecce Gimpo (Behold The Gimp),
The Awful, Dreaded World Of The Male Penis,
The Blues, Yeah, Right,
Shy, Dirty, And Still At School,
Balls n' All,
Adios Kid Chaos,
The Evil Eye Of Suspicion,
Swapping Spit,
Scumbag Alley,
The Logger,
The Big Fat Gay Trucker From Hell,
The Dead Leg,
Rocking Kills,
Postscript: Band Chronology,
The Author,
Other Titles Available From Cherry Red Books,

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