Versus Skatezine & Plus #129

Giris ‘n Abeu A love story, cunt

VERSUS SKATEZINE & PLUS #129 @ broken glasses edition

Giris ‘n Abeu A love story, cunt

A “Versus Skatezine & Plus” collector book

Why ? Fuck because the motherfuck’ we can !

Giris ‘n Abeu A love story, cunt

Character names Colin is [J]Cesus Oliver is Ol’ Smokey Jay is Jean Black Stefan is Krausen Raffa is Firehaha Dougal is Dodgy Hashhead Toby is Chippy Liv is So Toke Chic Simon is Cheesemaker Mickaela is Mahouka Lorenzo is Noa Boa (Rough Cunt) [Meth Head]

Prologue

Imagine inviting the loosest cunts from around the world to a three hundred year old villa in the north of Spain for a coupla weeks … then, one of them has this great idea: giving everyone a character name that best suits their alter ego to be written into a story of the weeks with no limitation on who can write or what can be written. Add endless amount of booze smoke fire sea n’ concrete and this is the result … enjoy!

Part 1: A World Without Rules

In a small village at the crossroads of the Northern way of the Camino de Santiago there was a house, a big stone house that lay silent all year like a virgin in a cave until the Girris arrived and lit ‘er fire, a big fire.

It all started with [J]Cesus.

[J]Cesus was staring at a white wall in Switzerland many eons ago when the walls started to talk: Abeu, they said, Abeuuuuuu, Abeuuuuuuu.

Now, here we all are, the biggest group of Giri Legends, like this legend, as they say, sitting around a small table drinking coffee and smoking tobacco while listening to various artists surrounded by rolling green hills and stone and the Yellow Love Bus and surfboards and hash. It is, as they say, day one of the Abeu residency, lit up, set-up, set flow, as they say, by last night’s bonfire.

The story goes that as the last light of the sun set over Terenes bay the grande Giris set fire to the final wood pallets in the village. 7 centuries of stockpiled wood and warm homes … after just one shitfaced and hash-laced night, Terenes was doomed to a summer of darkness. Jean Black and Firehaha, once the masters of the flame, had now taken away what was bestowed upon them. The only flame visible to the naked eye was Dodgy Hashhead and So Toke Chic grinding two stones together to make a spark to roll their joint. The joint was sparked and once again the light shone down upon their humble stone home. The spark of their joint was like a spark of hope in the eye of a small child. The spark of their joint sparked a fire inside that would burn on until the last block of chocolate was sold out of Pachu …

[J]Cesus had a plan.

A world without rules. Because rules are made by fools for fools, you know. But after he escaped from all his problems in Switzerland he ended up in Abeu with a shit load of new problems. He was so confused. He didn’t knew what to do. So, one night, totally desperate, he started to write a book, with the hope of finally getting enlightenment… It didn’t went like planned once again. His book: a book full of rules. The kook of the book called The Bible 2 (because he heard the first tome sold really well). Hopefully, his Giri friends are here to help him out to go through this new step in his life quest.

So, how did he go on that life quest? How did his friends help him?

How, tell me how bby … how you like it bby … like that bby? [J]Cesus lay down for his siesta (how bby bby?) … tripping out on that girl in mind (oh bby bby) … little boner while he lay there for his siesta … how it goes 15

… when u be a ranchero in the bu … Abeu after a surf, post surf bby blues on the lay … on the nod tod hit a frog out your ass bby bby, hot for the trot on the siesta nod … yep yep bby bby … and all that was happening in the mind on the mellow yellow bby bby mind of J[Cesus] while the boys … the boys! on the veranda as they say, chewing bread and meat … bocadillo, as they say … talkin … talkin lefts and rights … the boys! as they say … Krausen on the smoke on the lean on the veranda chewin … spittin talk about this and that wave while Firehaha and Jean Black sat back on the backs of the spicy chairs chewin and spittin it ha ha … the boys! as they say … old Chippy turns up n checks the scene … the post walk chew and spit, as they say, talkin bout that walk and that sea and that fuckin’ landscape … while all the time So Toke Chic sips on Mojito by the sea watchin’ the world of aged folk and white cars comin and goin like the sun when it sets and starts and the moon when it tinkles and turns and like the sparks that are blue and yellow and shaped like marijuana leaves speaking of how there is peace in the world and there will be love for all and there will be meaning and the meaning is … the meaning lies at the bottom of the can at the end of the joint the meaning lies in the curling of paper in the crumbling hash the meaning lies on the roadless tar yellow and burning lavender after the meat is cooked and the head is cooked and the sky is cooking with colourless sprinkles of dust and empty space for dreams and dreaming.

Right now, [J]Cesus is dreaming.

Dreaming of the meaning in things. Of paradise in love. Of rivers of breasts. Of cowgirls and hippies. Of wondrous fields of pot. And when the man wakes and remembers that Apps do exist and overlays need do be layed and that all the world is grey he will forget the sprinkling dreams of paradise and lust and instead turn inwards for hours, then days, then months until the day he enters the dream forever and realises once and for all that reality is dream and dream is reality and in his 16

knowing dreams are for beauty n’ paradise and that fact: his reality is full of beauty ‌ and all his anxieties of the so-called real world will drift away and he will float within the stream of love and peace and fate and the sky will open upon him for all the days.

So what was that quest again? What was it really?

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Part 2: Dinner Party, Bologna

It was really simple, simpriente, as they say, no pasa nada, tranquilidad, take it easy, breathe in … out … in … out, like Chippy, as it is, as we see, so they say … standing over the balcony inside the french doors beside the stone walls and the dead flowers and the red alive flowers, as he was, looking out over the bright green and grey as the sun clouds open above the grey blue sea, as it went, breathing in … out, fresh as cloud being sucked in throws of a planes wing shootin out like a pipa shell into the ether of the universal flow … breathing, as it were, as it was, as it is. Breathing like a merican monk three months post divorce, the lipsmacked whore bombshell tearing through knobs like splitting condoms. And what about [J]Cesus and Jean Black and Firehaha, Krausen? Well, they’ve taken off in the Yellow Love Bus toward the curled pine half drums of ranchero wood, as it were … they’re making lines in and out of flow and trim and turns and grinds …

Meanwhile, back in the casa del Girri a stew of bologna was simmering in a pot and So Toke Chic and Dodgy Hashhead and Chippy were choppin wood for the scene … the mosphere … the style of warmth that shakes in and simmers a Girri to his core … drawing blood of wine and conversation that will last for hours and then forever, as they say … we’re creating memories that will turn heads over the death bed, that will explode fines like fire flies and expose a certain amount of truth to all those open to receiving. Are you open bby? Open to receiving my love and warmth? Because, in the end, after all his wanderings and wonderings, [J]Cesus will be here, opening up to love and fate like a bad motherfucker with a nightmare hangover. He’ll surrender to life and life, oh life, will open up to him. My name is Ol’ Smokey and I’m turning over for a cigarette. Another Girri comin’ at you soon bby, bby.

Rule number 13: no fucking paragraphs. Rule no 7: buy a big fuck off thing of tobacco. Rule number 27: if [J]Cesus edits this during the night Ol’ Smokey is allowed to kick his arse like a bad motherfucker. Rule number 300: always pack a fancy shirt (just incase there’s Aussie cunts around).

Rule number 400: call everyone by there fucking name, cunt. Rule number 700: Cesus fucking complains about his name ever again. Rule number 900: fuckin listen …

The success of pleasure in offering, the hedonism of giving, the red neck talk of idiots abroad, ha ha, make us become a whole kangaroo … you gotta cut her up the leg, pull out er parts and marinate like a motherfucker. Beer and meat bby yeah. And then, by the way, we were here all sittin stuck in a room together not knowing where to go, what to say, how to act, so there he came…we were just sippin on a nice glass of wine when Ol’ Smoky said, ‘Lets to go La Casina,’ when Firehaha 21

replied promptly, ‘Get fucked!’ … so them two started what can’t be prevented … a proper fist fight … last man standing … the mood was tense, animal instincts took over, punches flew thru the room, eventually Ol’ Smoky passed out smiling, saying, ‘May you experience real peace, reap harmony, real happiness’.

Night passed, sun rose, alcohol evolved, back to daily life … cofffee, cigarette, bocadillo, smiling. Burnt. Soul. Shoe. Hot coals and rocks stuck beneath, underneath the rubber. Fire of the universe consumes and engulfs the floor. Hot, burns the soft. Skin, life. Smokey. Smoky walks … the depressed horse looks, he whips his hair back for the 713th time, almost and almost it clears the eyes, but … not… quite.

Cow bells, Chippy climbs rusty windmill tumbles, bulls runnin electric fences talk and the flies fall and vomit. Bells, cows ring. Mojitos flow through the Gorge du Verdon as pumas pounce protectively procrastinating pondering past preconceptions and pessimistic peers…pounding. Pounding. She dont like, she dont like co-cain, She li-keco cain. The ax? Nails and the bark and the dried grass … shoes…cocain? Jeeean noir, drinks, noir rises the sun, i know im one; down in New orl-leans, towards the rising sun. G-L-O-R-I-Aaaaaa. The ring sun, to-wards the house of the rising sun. The roses, deceptive-luminous encapsulating colours. Thorns that get stuck in the leather-iest of heels …butt…scents that don’t exist like a fire that cooks the ribs and the meat and the lavender … haha! fire … “3 more crates, more or less, no?” Dodgy hash head drops, he drops it over the 1500km incline … the joint of co-horse. Pom-plemouuuse, po-mplem-ou-seee dont fall down the incline, grab Smoky n’ your pomplemouse before the green, purple, yella and white spill over the plastic wrapped haybails and jill falls down and breaks jacks crown. Night and day neigh and neigh as they sway in the fray and fro and bop and bow, fences open, grass is flat and patatas mixta? [J]Cesus and Krausen crawl back to the depressed horse to hitch a ride back to the 1500km incline -Gorge du Verdon to collect pomp-le-mouse and fallen Dodgy Hashead. Seaweed, grainy black pebbles disguised as sand squished between tired and cold, wrinkly feet … wrap around, squirm and swish and swirl and swing and swoosh, swill and swoo back-and-forth and back-an-d forth, through and through and under and over … over the hill and down and over and, through. The death of the fire?

It’s ok: [J]Cesus had his siesta!

The fire is saved by Fire-haha! liv——ing up to the name. Re-gurgitating swiss chocoate onto nut-ella, onto bagguettes. Smoky lives up to his name. Fire! fire! pippas is a way better idea than chocolate; pink fl-oyd, dont take 22

a slice of my pie…is the root of all eeeevil? today, away. away. awayyyy, ooooohhhhh. you know when your hands are free and the the pippas just keep em, pretty. much-you know? busy pretty much ay? no para. no prapleg… no paragraphs, according to #713 and Smoky. The lamp slopes and melts along the uneven timber planks that hold 18th century family whispers and screams, but no dancing … Ol’ Smoky squats for a wee and a boogy, whoops Smoky sips his Irish coffee sips and wees and falls over the edge … he slips past and then back and forth and fro and near and far and forward and back and front and here and there and then somebody suddenly says the most profound thing ever spoken: ‘if you spill it you gotta lick it’ and therefore, ever after, we kind of all just got along not really knowing what the ffffff it was all about … … Anyways, the story continues …

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Part 3: Moon Beam Through the Shoestring

With some very decorated deserts in form of bread and milk chocolate mixed together in a way only a true free spirited character could ever done… she says, where is the light? She’s always asking the same question. She’s always looking for the light. We’re on her side. We don’t fight it. Out it Abeu all the people are on the level. They shout “Power to the people”. They shout it and they mean it. The chooks and the bell dingin cows and stone rocking ruins all say the same thing. It’s not cause they need it, it’s cause they feel it right down in the depths of their bones … they feel the marrow pulsating. It’s moving in waves … like the ones that roll through Vega on the high tide muay thai left hand bank in the wank bank with a trout in the tank and a manky towel with an empty bowel, after a big night on the Sidra. Like a night at La Casina. Light a sunset on the Caribina with a sinner and a saint, everybody pulln their weight. Everybody sayin what need to be said and playin with the words like a 101 year old on his deathbed … walkin that mile and doin it with style. This is the game and that’s how we play. Like a mainstream bakery scene it’s all empanada’s and chorizo ball things. Spicy and obscene. Icy like a moonbeam in the abeu well stream. Fresh water and fresh motherfuckers. You can’t fight that whisky water coffee coka crazy mocha soaker stream. A moonbeam through the shoestring. A Cesus Christ with the moonlit smile. Ceaser the greaser the underground sidra beaver. Tunnels of booze that are oozing from a siesta snooze. Rule 527: Siesta snoozer ain’ no loser. Get that rest like a beat in the chest. Heart Beats and mean feeds. Bolognese on hazy daze. Save your show and shine for a ride on the time line. Back in the days with the ways to the main vein. Feelin the burn and yearning for top turns on rogue curves.

You take what you get and you get what take. You make your own gown and you wear it to town. You get what you give and you give what you get. You’re magic, you’re stardust, you’re pissed and you’re bent… You’re rolling in lent like a pilgrim to the side road sent when the yellow love bus pumps the vent. We got beepin screens and wax gripped seams. The insurance pricks are overrun with all the damage done. They not that into fun, they want it pristine clean, but life ain’ so keen. We’re trackin dog legs like a white man on a bobsled. Cool runnings aint as funny as a swiss and a french and an aussie in the dunny. Yeah that sidra really clears a man out, that trout is spouting and the whale off the bay a spouting man on an outing in paradise like mice nibblin on the spice of life. You’re a tequila worm squirmin like a merman, the tail of a doliphin with a mad grin and the torso on a man and the hands and the canned gags. Saginaki origami, do you want the culture or the virtue? What’s true? What’s you? I’m there and I’m Hebrew corkscrew cashew fu-manchu on a stand up paddle board gotta paddle more for the shore like a whore on the ground score always wanting more always searching for …

The end Or The undoing 27

I am Undoing like I do And you keep and you will And you pass me the nail coated flame soaked pale Because you know that I know what to do Bby smoked a canoe on a lip of a turtles wake poor While the aligator soars Like a lion in the wind on top of that fuckin rock out of Lion King, no?

Yeah nah yeah you feel that like I do.

And I know you do.

The 7 disciples of [J]Cesus on the breezes left right up out he needs us.

It’s dark out there. I’m pretty sure you can see the yellow car. Firehaha says, ‘Haha, GPS.’ Jean Black like 4 guys good work so proud, we have to take it easy. We’re in such good form. No one can stop us. Maybe tomorrow we can just really go for it. A plan and a backpack full of beers on the beach. Sleep all day cause we don’t care. Wake up have a beer straight to La Casina. 8 days a week. I love you La Casina … no one wants to go there! Not even on a friday night … we live in another world … its called Pedres little fucking messy hacienda … without wood anymore … noodle needle or what is he called … ahhh maybe Smoky … or so fucking gross those weeing sessions out of the french or in the French … okay lets say window … in your mouth bitch … no bitch is too ruff! Lets say baby … bby … maybe bby bitch … yes pissing out of window is truly something what a real man needs to do from time to time … just getting the snake out of business … let it rain little sunshine … directly into the white wall as never before!

We smoke cigarettes ha ha We drink beer ha ha We laugh about jokes ha ha We watch the sunrise ha ha We listen to the beach boys ha ha We wait for the final joint ha ha Ha ha ha ha Ha ha Ha !

Ah …

Ha-di-fuckin-ha, you could say we’re satisfied … A cool cold breeze drifts through the open windows of my mind, like a woman the morning after that night before, just hours ago we were dancing to the beat of the fuck and then she left and here we are … trying to keep warm 28

with new smoke and quiet conversation … silently mopping floors … covering up the wine and piss as if she was never there at all, as if it was all a dream, like it is, as it were, so they say, cheap philosophy and cheap beer … what a combo, said the boys, as it were, as was said before she left before i came before i wept before it all began again, as it were, as it is, NOW, like fuck the power of one and Nietzsche and Freud …

Fuck the old heroes and bring me a woman … like So Toke Chic, as it were, as it is … what a woman, a flower among the thorns a wave amongst the desert a milk chocolate dessert a crying waterfall of wine, so we continue … cold coffee floats around the empty cups like the silence in Abeu, a heart of green full to the brim with life in nothing-ness and peace in noise and cryin lungs in stone and distant minds caught in the throws of last nights beer cans, crinkled and dry but not yet gone, not yet gone! another joint another sip another another ….

When in doubt write it out. That fucking trout. Back again like a slippery soldier on the edge of reason. Tip toeing eerily close to the edge but never taking the final step. [J]Cesus in a role for the ages. Dodgy Hashhead on a roll. Roll one up. Tokey keeps it lowkey. Smokey on the third person. Chippy feeds the hoards and hoarders. Firehaha crossin borders, he’s jean black’s daughter. Krause says not today like it’s all okay and we won’t be late for the crate breaker the load shaker and cake maker and nuttella choccy milk bread baker …

[J]Cesus is dead. Methhead took over. And now, everything is different.

Ol’ Smoky is in love. Firehaha doesn’t even burn anymore, Hashhead disappeared on that beautiful left, Chippy isn’t there to cook for the Giris, Jean Black is a pot-head… So Toke Chic?

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Part 4: The Caravan Park

What was the last sentence already? Damn it. Yesterday it was all clear … I could remember it… But then… But then, last night came around…

Oh bby bby… I guess this bright shooting star, escape with it, into the darkness of the Swiss chocolate constellation, direction Meth. Yeah, Meth… Have you already been on Meth? Crazy planet. At least, when you can see the Big Bear, you have the feeling to be at home… Yeah right, it was a fucking airplane you dickhead… In the end, who fucking cares?

Yeah, what happened Or end up in Versus…

on

the

road

stays

on

the

road…

Meathhead sittin on the couch smoking another and talkin drug philosophy 101 … something bout the subconscious and hittin the pipe and the big bear … fuckin meathead … fresh seafood and golden blue waves and really cold beer and smoking and laughter … ‘Ah we’re laughing,’ Cesus said once … before the pallet … before firehaha set the light … ‘Ah we’re laughing,’ he had said. But now, it’s all over bby blue, as Dylan said, all you seasick sailors on the beach on the chew on the laugh on the spew … the spew! There’s been a few of those but only the few have continued!

Oh, the boys! On the wine and the talk of this and that … of the between this and that … and of the this … and of the that … and then comes a story from Noa Boa … Where the fuck is he takin’ us now? … Where are we off to Methead? … fuckin meathead … strike another match go start a new … and it’s all over now bby blue … meathead is shittin in his own mouth … fire is fucking the flame like a motherfucker … have you ever seen the big bear? Have you ever seen the rain? Fuckin Smoky’s drinkin beer … the fucking trailor park … fuckin Cesus just laughed … maybe a little bit more hash meathead? Yeah tomorrow sure that’s a good idea… you need some fucking acid to understand that conversation … hey dick … you fucking tight arse trailor park trash … white trash … meathead hit the pipe and shut up … roll this fucking joint dickhead … fire is lit up carvin up crumbling up that beautiful chocolate mousse … and by the way the trailor park was on fire … meathead your off your head again… drugs are bad, says meathead… if its coated in bamboo its fine … axe man is here … we can’t cut any more wood! no no that’s not burning at all… we need more fire … we need more fucking drugs by the way…

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Skate to hell What the fuck is that smell Oh you’ve just hit the pipe Damn it you must be blind Just do another grind Backside, or frontside God was never on your side Early session carvin’ C’mon, hit the coping Full of blood or hash It’s time for a bowl bash Don’t be a stupid fool Slash that fucking pool Losing your mind In endless grind Release your tension Thrash the extension You slam, you bleed Another beer is what you need If you land or if you bail Doesn’t matter just do it again Hit the lip hit the lip No time to sleep You’ve to reach the top If you wanna rock’n’roll Fuck the clock Smash that noseblock Hurry up you fucking cunt It’s time for the next blunt You’ve got a new mail Yeah whatever, slap your tail You’ve a got a missed call Fuck off check that axel stall Decisions must be radical When you hit the vertical Disaster is my religion Grinding is the reason

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Success, let’s celebrate. Like the Royal family we did ate. Just taking it easy. We even said no to fantasy. What a time to be alive. Let’s enjoy how quiet is now. Because, again, I bet tomorrow gonna be wild. Three AM: stoned on the couch conversations then out of nowhere Meathead says: C U Next Tuesday and 1987 is the best year …

Hey Meathead, should we have another joint or go to bed? Ha ha ha ha … (Meathdead is now rolling the joint) … should we smoke the hash or the grass? Ha ha ha … Lets smoke this hash … no, we should save it for breakfast … Ha ha ha … lets smoke the grass … yeah, but save some for tomorrow … yeah, I’m just rolling a small one, says Meathead … ha ha ha … yeah fucking right you meathead…

Why is Meathead doing the bills?

I thought we said never trust a Meathead… Anyway, in the end here is it: Oli only bought Tobacco, but Ol’ Smoky spent all his money on hash, weed, sidra and chocolate. Colin doesn’t have to pay shit because he was only sleeping during this trip, but Cesus is now pretty broke. He might have to stay here for a while, wash the dishes in Pachu… Guaje, bought tons of food but Firehaha burnt everything… The stupid dog ate all the empanadas… Stefan killed Krauser, he’s fine… Methead is now rich somehow; maybe we should check how he calculated the bills again. This fool might be pretty good in math too actually. Maybe the lawyer in him, Lorenzo, is showing up from time to time?

Cheers cunt, he says … Cheesemaker was sittin on the couch… arm on the backrest … anyone want a drink? Speakin in acid language … hard-core music … lets find the bliss bby… dying … Meathdead’s taking care of it… I think it’s going on… hey guys beers! ok its mine… Mahou Green? Maybe switch that song… no its crap its shit … only one question… where`s THE CAPTAIN????? THE CAPTAIN is lost somewhere 36

out in the southpolitanian sea… miserably… ‘he was always good for a good old pipe, the captain,’ Meathead says…

We wait for the sun… Fire is fucked up, we are freezing, glasses are burning in the sun sunlight, fuck it’s heavy, Cesus, now it’s start the good session … let’ s have a cider, I’m drunk … It’s smoky in here, cooky, I’m fUCKED …

Sweeping up the broken glass … broken hearts… broken shards… broken windows… broken freedom… broken religion … broken stories… but, somehow, we all find a way to get along, have some fun, and find our freedom… sombreness this morning … The end? Jean Black is dead …

I don’t want to see him again… you want to cut the wood inside… there is light… Cesus is also dying… or maybe dead… What a wonderful day.

Mystical green shiny hills slightly covered with fog. Fading sky into the ocean. Power full vibes. Waves washed away the worries, bad feelings and the hangover from the wild night the Giris had. Colour full natural painted stones, cows, wild goats, fishermen. Simply amazing. The positive energy is back. Cesus is talking about destroying the rental car. Everything is fine again. Anyway, what did Cesus expected exactly: bringing together all the loosest cunts he knew from all around the world?

Cesus and Ol Smoky just get back from the village with a bucket of tobacco, wine, tits and tatts… the boys, haha, the boys are back! The Spaniards turned up with smiles, no worries mate! Krause is off for a wave… Meathhead’s having a wank… Cesus is siesta and Jean Black is still finding his head… but stoked… mellow… Buddha… Fire has the bologna boiling… it’s still grey and green but everything is going to be yellow bby, yeah! Rule number 1000: never apologise. Some merican bloke turns up, Jonathon, is Brack Head and he’s stoned like hell. Hey we 4 are the last ones! … hey your off your fucken head Meathead… haha fuck you… oh such a perfect day… I’m glad spent it with you… yeah right… tomorrow gonna be even better, we gonna finally enjoy our first meat-empanada! 3am is the new 11pm. France won. Krauser got pissed. He was on fire for about… 5 minutes… We have no pot that’s fucking wrong, says Meathhead. Ol’ Smoky turned into Titshead and then into Methhead pretty weird. Here we are the last 3 cunts. As fucked up as this 3 legged bird. You know the one who choose the way they wanna turn in their life. Clockwise. Anti-clockwise. Who gives a shit. In the end it’s just a gypsie camp, caravan park. Giris with fresh new ink tatts. Do you know how does a cat sounds like mate? Mahou Mahou Mahou… Aahaha we are laughing again. Ol’ Smoky went to bed.

Methhead is rolling another one. That’s it. What a quiet night. Is that a good sign for tomorrow night? No. Definitively not. Unfortunately.

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Miserably. Music’s over. The end? I don’t think so.

Sittin round the dinner table… meathead there… firehaha sittin round the fire… the roof is burning…fucked by life again… yeah you live but u get fucked… Time passes and she has but here’s Ol’ smoky for a final score: We went wild again and again last night, Jean Black said yes to another bottela de cidre just at the moment when we all had a glass of red and sangria and beer and already a few of the old apples… yes, he said, yes, we’ll take anotha bottle… there was a laugh… then Jean Black did his usual move… put his palm out and headed upward as if he were cruising up the mount … she’s shapin up again, boys! The boys! ha ha, we all laughed AND HE WAS RIGHT. We turned over every bottle of this and that and then Ol’ smoky broke his wine glass… accidentally! ha! we all laughed… the boys again… headin up the mount… left the restaurant at 3 am and stumbled along the plateau of blissful drunk dreaming of the captain and the life and all of its happenings… stumbling in a circular affair… on the rollercoaster of love… of friendship… of hope! hope! for good things and health! ha! someone knocks on the small wooden window and then next thing you know… the captain! Meathead finally got his hit… Fire was seeing double… Cesus showed up for a bit then did a cameo with the Spanish crew! then… as it would be… Jean Black, Meathhead, Fire and Ol’ smoky were left hangin over the bar… playing guita… singin and breakin shitloads of glasses! Ha ha! The boys, again… stumblin out into the dawn… nearly get ina fight… the glass! says Fire, he’s got a bottle in his hand!… yes he does… weak cunt! the boys! end up in some chicks car… begging for a ride… no mate… hey, where’s meathead? Ha ha … he lay down and took off in the back seat of that chick’s car… ha ha! There he his… running down the hill… hey guys, he says, pissed n stoned... I hid in the back then yelled out Putos Giris! Ha ha! Fuckin’ Meathead … we get a taxi into the sun risin’ up … Ol’ smoky wants to do a runner… but he already broke eight glasses tonight! Ha… Shit… what a wake up… Cesus is going to Aus… no he’s not … he’s stayin! Ol’ smoky sticks around … but the boys got dates in Swiss… so we sittin round the bitumen chain-smoking … no one wants to say goodbye… then Cesus turns up with the rental car… he guys, he says … Cesus just turned up! … then he rolls over his pocket and there it is: a long stick of hash………… Meathhead rolls the final joint and the boys smoke it in silence… sittin in a circle … on the road… we’re all in for the ride together I s’pose… the wild ride of life… yeah u live… but u get fucked… get fucked! the end? (never!)

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Postscript:

J[Cesus] is now engaged to Gloria. Ol’ Smoky is hiding out in the tropics of North Australia. Jean Black is still Jean Black. Meathhead is dead but Lorenzo is fine, lawyer-ing. Firehaha is in an office in Switzerland googling ‘sanity’. So Toke Chic is still painting. Dodgy Hashead’s rollin one up in Eastern Europe with Chippy. What happened to the others, Krause, Krausen!?

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Giris ‘n Abeu A love story, cunt

“ Sweeping up the broken glass … Broken hearts…

Broken shards… Broken windows… Broken freedom…

Broken religion … Broken stories… But, somehow, we all find a way to get along, have some fun, and find our freedom… ”

VERSUS SKATEZINE & PLUS #129 Asturias / Summer 2016