So...yes...I estimate I was up that tree for 2 hours or so. After a time I was starting to get weak and faint. I didn’t know if I was just going to fall asleep or pass out and die from acute hypothermia. I thought to myself that if it were to be the latter I’d be forever attached to that tree – my arms wrapped round the branch tightly. No one would be able to remove me and at Halloween time the local Portavogian children would come and throw all the unwanted sweets they’d got trick or treating at my wrinkled yet otherwise perfectly preserved frozen corpse.
Below me the dog was still ceaselessly circling. I began to decide to myself that this was having some sort of hypnotic affect on me, like staring into an ever-turning spiral. I started to wonder if it were me clinging to that tree or if I were the tree be clung to. My Buddhaistic surmisings were to be short lived though when I heard a whistling approach from behind me. I thought of Omar from the Wire and played on the notion of him finding himself in backwater Ulster Portavogie to collect on a drug debt.
The whistling man approached and the dog finally stopped circling. The dumb animal was dizzy: woozy and stumbling; and boked up in the long grass around the tree.
“Monkey. Monkey you stupid animal. What are you doing?”
The dog whimpered back.
“That dog should be put down!” I yelled. “Or if not put down constrained by a strong chain 24 hours a day! It chased me up this tree!”
“We do keep him chained up,” said the farmer whose looks were a cross between a Thomas Hardy prototype and the Simian curves of a young Fred West.
“He loosed hamsalf from has chain this marnan” he said out of a slit of a mouth – an old clay pipe firmly stuck in the corner between stiff chapped lips. “He’s an heat. It as impossible ta becalm him – unless I am ta assuage has urgings mahsalf.”
With this he smacked Monkey’s bum and sat him down. “Right Monkey mah boy – time ta arouse ya!” The farmer took Monkey’s limp little maggot dick and started to tickle it into life. In a matter of minutes Monkey’s dick was long hard and purple. And it was very big. It looked like he’d been stabbed in the stomach with the thin end of a snooker cue and had had it driven right up inside him, leaving only the fat end jutting out.
Once the farmer had him going Monkey started to spasm and he promptly came like a fireman’s hose. The length of his jizzim stream at full capacity was as long as 3 30cm school rulers back to back.
“Right young lad,” said the farmer. “You can get down fram thar now. I’ve becalmed him.”
So I did. Get down out of the tree.
Getting back into Belfast on the bus, the street lights curved along the Lagan lit up under the Albert Bridge, this song came on the radio. Balls’shaft ain’t NYC, and not even the combination of these epic production values, or my optimistic imagination, could convince me otherwise.