Thursday, 22 September 2011

Park The Car 20 Blocks Away And Walk To The Fight

It seems my mind went off stage temporarily. Couldn't find it anywhere...backstage between curtain calls...anywhere at all...

Party Time is back. The afternoon he rocked up at my door he presented me with a beautiful little turtle shell tabby, a thing so small it'd fit comfortably in even an infant girl's womb with plenty room left over; - for a freak nonce's fist...for anything...

I have named the little tabby Gore Vidal. It is a feisty little tom that holds the firm conviction that 'the republic is dead' – something he conveys to me in my dreams in a clipped New England accent. I love Gore Vidal very much. I nearly kissed Party Time when he pulled it outta his bag that reasonably sunny September morning. It didn't take long for the big cunt to worm his way back into my affections. As an act of contrition it were a beautiful gesture...

Gore Vidal likes to explore round all the nooks and crannies of my dirty little cave. Party Time, who had to take to the streets and sleep on the footpath this last few months has thusly chosen to sleep on the floor instead of in my bed or on the sofa, which is where he used to kip when he lived with me before. So Party Time stays down on the floor most of the time and playing with Gore Vidal I enjoy seeing his, albeit flaky, composure return.

Little Gore Vidal is a bold and inquisitive thing. One afternoon he snuck into the washing machine, in among all my dirty laundry. Later I put a wash on and the thing hadn't gone 2 seconds when I hear the little fucker screaming like a convulsing sow. So I frantically stopped the cycle and pulled the soggy moggie out. I swear I heard him giggle. Good ol' Gore Vidal.

One day low on coin I went to one of the more disreputable bars in my neighbourhood as I had a terrible thirst on for the liquor. These disreputable bars round my way are open from 7.30am and serve alcohol. Spirits, beer, wine etc etc etc...

Party Time came with me. We dandered round there 8.15 in the morning. The sun was coming up and above the gulls circled and cackled. Unfortunately Party Time has lost his native linguistic exoticism and now those beautiful phonetics of his have been stripped of their beauty just like...a village of dusky tribeswomen molested by clap ejaculating conquistadors...just like an actor out on loan, on a daytime soap opera, who's required to present with a exotic accent but who can't keep it up – who the producers hope can revert back to linguistical terra ferma while the viewing public don't notice. He now speaks, Party Time, with a voice the sound of which falls somewhere between Johnny 'Mad Dog' Adair and Paul Rankin.

In the bar the barman, the dirty looking fucker, buffing the glasses and admiring his tats in the big mirror struggling for attention behind all the optics, regards me and Party Time, especially Party Time, with great suspicion.
 - Gimme a gin & tonic, - I went, tone of a stick up artist demanding just paper money.
 - Guinness, - went Party Time.
The barman gives us the evils. I smolder like a mildly rohypnoled Steve McQueen. Party Time pants like an angry dog.
 - Where's the carnival? There's a float missing its Fruits! - said the sarcy barman.

After I brought Party Time back down to earth, just when it looked like he were gonna stick his dick down that bastard's throat, in walks Fat Sandra, daughter of UncleDudley's on/off toothless hoor woman, Izzy Hoyland, with this dangerous looking Eastern European fella, who, on further inspection by me later, as the evening wore on, - I noticed - was sporting the wee sparrow tattoo on the flappy bit between his thumb and his forefinger.

Fat Sandra was still nibbling on bog roll to fill her stomach.
 - That must be a long diet, - I observed to her when I sidled up beside her.
The evil Eastern European looked at me like I'd two heads.
Then the mad cunt started barking at me like a dog.
Party Time got the heebie jeebies and bailed.

The evil Eastern European followed us down the street in his little Ford Coupe with its daft spoiler and chase ultra violet lights. He blasted this un at us
like fucking aural torture like what they used on the Waco holy-rollers with New Kids On The Block...fucking evil Eastern European pimp the looks of it.


  1. tony - Gore No More! Don't worry, hasn't met the same fate as Boke The Cat, but i have reverted to calling him just 'cat' till i think of something less of a mouthful.
    j - thanks, man. And good to see you back as well. hope yer over the hump on that evil sounding hangover, too!