What You Want For Nothin'? A Rubber Biscuit?

Another happening occurring in the last fortnight was that Party Time done a bunk for 4 days.

It all started on a Saturday afternoon. I was at home watching a Coronation Street omnibus, and Party Time turns to me and says...

          -  Ah ahm gan to thah shaps.

          - Right, - I went.

And he just didn't come back.

I hadn't noticed until the 4 hour Coronation Street marathon was over. I sat through the credits; right to the end. Someone had told me there's a very blatant subliminal appears somewhere after the 15 second mark. I got onto the floor and onto my belly and shimmied my way over till I was right up under my old shitey set and staring close at the screen.

When I thought I saw it I went to Party Time, - There did you see it? - And when I turned to look to get his reaction, he wasn't there.

I rang him a few times on his mobile as the night went on, but come the next day I coulda give a shit what'd happened to him.

By the fourth day I did begin to get worried. Not so much for his sake as much as for mine. If he turned up dead the police would get involved. For the same reasons I hadn't called them yet to report him missing I now hoped beyond hope he wasn't dead. I crossed both my fingers and put one of those prayers to St Jude in the Belfast Telegraph's classified, St Jude being the saint of lost causes.

Then, the fifth day he came home. I thanked St Jude by saying a prayer, then ruined it at the end by praying for the death of my enemies and loadsa dosh.

I arrived home sometime mid-afternoon having been out delivering a thing for a new pal. I notice the distinctive multicoloured tennis shoes of Party Time sticking out from under my neighbour's car.

  - What you doin under there, Party Time? I asked

  -  Ah ahm axe-spectan far a car bamb. Wah mast gat avah tah Hammasmyth quack fast tah pack app mar praddack!                                               

  -  But, Party Time, - I insisted, - You're back in shitey old Belfast again...you're not in London no more!

At this he pulled himself out from under the neighbour's car. He was all sweaty and I got the impression he'd sprinted all the way from the International Airport, which is a good 4.5 miles, anyway. He got up and dusted himself off. Then a neighbour appeared.

  -  Here! - His big red face squealed. - What you at under my car? You planting a bomb under there, yah big cunt?        
  -  Nahhhh...- drawled Party Time, his eyes rolling in his head.
  -  What's'at? - Went the neighbour cupping his hand under his wee, underdeveloped burns' victim lug, - I don't fuckin speak ape, cunt...Nae what ye at?
  -  Don't worry, - went I, stepping in with the condescension of an archbishop, - he is my cousin, and he  has learning difficulties. Shame on you!

At this the fat bald headed little man hung his head and shuffled his fat arse off in the direction of his neat little house.

I took Party Time inside and sat him down on the couch, and he told me his story.

He had gone round to the shops, as he had said, with the intention of buying a box of smokes and coming straight back home again. At the shops he met this dear old woman, who was buying Miracle Grow for her garden. Party Time convinced her he'd do her garden for 80 quid, and after some arm twisting she agreed.

So he spends the afternoon doing that. The old duck pays him, and he is on his way. Only he is not coming home to me, he is heading to the airport and he is getting the first plane to London.

When in London he meets all his old connections and he spends 3 and a half days smoking Crystal and snaking Filipinos. Before he leaves he has enough wherewithal still though to purchase some reasonable quantity of Crystal to bring back home with him. He is planning to test the market here for it, to put some out there and see what demand is like.

But once again his grand plans are scuppered by a heavy paranoid turn and once again it is the Chinese, he believes, are after him again...only this time not the Triads but the Chinese Secret Police. They are waiting for him to board the flight, he thinks. They are going to lift him then, no doubt.

So he goes into the nearest toilets, locks the cubicle door behind him and shoots what he can up his arm and flushes the rest.

On the plane he's fine. It's when he touched down in Belfast he came up on it. He stepped out onto the concourse, the sun in his face, and felt the euphoria whirlpool in his belly. And after that he can't remember a fucking thing.