Sunday, 10 April 2011

We Will All Bake Together When We Bake, There'll Be Nobody Present At The Wake

I took Party Time into the town today to walk about in the heat and show him the sites. For some reason (that’s to say what give rise to the reason was lost on me) I wanted to portray ‘BowlsFast’, as he says it, in a good light, - have her make the best out of what she’s got: and what better way to rouge up the pallid cheeks of the never-pretty dirty old hoor but with a bit of warm sun.

Party Time cut a dash walking along in his ¾ lengths, a straw hat and a cigar. He wore a Speedo vest under a Magnum PI Jungle Bird, (hanging open); a fucking site. The bakes the natives pulled at the sight of him, that just-took-a-whiff-of-shite expression on their faces, were, I reckoned with a smile, the one year-round constant here – to wit: in response to any given stimuli, no matter what, the collective expression of the natives of BowlsFast is one of agitation that is perpetually on the verge of sliding into full blown slabber flecked rage.

We made our way through the town up to Botanic Park. On the way we stopped at The Empire for a sit-down break and we both had a pint of Becks. We sat up in the mezzanine bit and Party Time made a show of looking down at this pair, all of 17, round hips packed in starched white hotpants swinging like a mesmerist’s pocket watch as they went past to the bogs. The rest that pass below he puckers up all hammy vaudevillian, even at the likes of them that take any break in the weather as an excuse to get their flaps out: lace-up-back tops, backpack-back fat bulging, look like piano wire passed through butter, and false lashes with sparkles in em at the end.

I shuffle through the load of tribute band flyers they’ve got stacked about the lunch menu like scaffolding round a church steeple and serendipitously come across a flyer of some punk-anarchist collective stating their aims and intentions, but whose goals I couldn’t really fathom even after reading the thing front and back two times. But the serendipity of the discovery was due to this quote from Anthony Trollope as a preface to their ‘Mission Statement’, almost identically resembling the thoughts I were having walking through the place today:

“Belfast is a filthy, disagreeable, unwholesome, uninteresting town, with bad water and worse inhabitants and nothing on earth to recommend it…”


  1. Post the whole manafesto up here. I want to know who it is!

  2. What is a Speedo vest? Is it anything like the mankini Borat wore..??!

  3. PattyPat - I never took the thing with me and i can't really remember now, but i remember the collective's name was, like, three initials that started with either B or G.

    The other thing was there was a lot of this long winded and obscure philisophical bullshit in it about social change and a coming clash of ideaologies and what people could do to affect social change thru anarchism etc etc etc.

    the thing that really sticks out is they described what their first act would be, which was like a 'art assault' or something, where they would blow up big pictures of blown up buildings from belfast city centre from the 70's and superimpose them over the big ugly old things they got all over the place now like the opal tower etc. i thought THAT idea was fuckin class though!

    Gledwood - i meant lycra vest, and here's what one of them looks like here:

    as to your post a few days back regarding 'do people still sniff mephadrone?' they most certainly do, or what they still call 'mephadrone' anyway, but is far from the real good uncut gear you got when it was legal. now its cut to fuck with all sorts of things: washing up detergent being one, i've heard. the horror story went round that when it was legal a man pulled his scrotum off when he was high on it. that was when it was pure - but i don't know what would be worse, that or shiteing foamy detergent for a week in light of what they cut it with now.

    but there's also talk of the chinese making new varients of these legal highs and sending em out every day. the lastest one tehy're calling 'woof woof' (like mephadrone was called meaow meaow [apparantly]) where they get these daft fucking names i'll never know, but then again it just could've been somebody pulling my leg

  4. Irish blog, says it right up top. I'm just stupid. Are your pubs red?

  5. Anna Grace - ha!, but that's a very small little sign....our pubs here change colour nightly depending on the ammount and ingredients of the vomit that has been expelled by revellers all over its exterior walls. i once walked past a pub in the early hours after st paddy's day one year, and i swear, it looked like something outta ghostbusters, the amount of human vomit plastered over every inch of the walls and footpath (sidewalk)