The country smelt worse than the last time I visited. I went to a site where I knew they did cattle burnings over the whole Foot & Mouth national perturbance and performed what I thought were a kinda spell. It was my will to bring down a national plague transmitted to the populace through the medium of bad beef.
I drove on, taking her wide round tight corners and through a field for the craic. I spat in the eye of a big black dog that chased my motor up a lane and tired to run sheep of a cliff round Warrenpoint.
I let her coast don through the Fourwinds and joined the rest of the automotive civilisation on the Saintfield Rd.
I paid a visit to Uncle Dudley (My Uncle) and looped through the city centre to see if I could spot Party Time around.
Before going home I stopped at the offies and got some beer and vodka. I passed the spot where Boke the Cat was found dead and crossed myself and said a prayer for him again reccommending his soul to the Saint of Animals (whoever that is), that the poor thing's spirit should reside in or around the Rainbow Bridge.
At home I drank my beer, had a smoke and lay on my bed...I put Mark Bolan on the hi-fi and pondered the imponderables: Like, how's it feel to be a loon? Is it always the same...? Can it be reduced to a series of adjectives...?
I remembered this article I read once in UFO Magazine about the death of Mark Bolan, killed instantly (if memory serves) when his car hit a tree. I reckoned this would be a terrible way to go...its a fear of driving I have, to die in a car wreck. One of my all time greatest fears: to be tearing round some tight little country road only to meet a wee raker head on, coming the other way, - for him to come through his front window then trough yours too, his head crashing through your ribcage and sinking itself deep in your chest cavity and you waiting there, for maybe hours, in total never-before-imagined agony, waiting for the ambulance to come.
I think about my own death. The circumstances and the time I have left...I see life as like a countdown clock. It is. But I hope the end is painless. In my sleep or from the end of a gun .Quick. But above all painless.