Brave Men Tell The Truth, A Wise Man's Tools Are Analogies & Puzzles

I'd to take a run over to the City Airport this afternoon as Party Time had sent word that he was coming back from London today and that he wanted me there waiting for him getting off the plane. I reckoned this were him anticipating himself going bananas again, like when he came back that last time loaded and I'd to chase him across a McDonald's carpark when he went after this cripple with a screwdriver. His instructions to me were to inject him with tranquilizers and/or taze him were he to act up. He told me the tranquilizers along with his stungun were in a shoebox under the sofa.

So I stood there waiting for him at the front of the airport, teasing the automatic doors by waving my hand under its sensor, when I begin to feel like a bit of a plonker when I realise I'm in a very risky position here, standing in front of an airport as I am (albeit not a big deal important one) with a concealed stungun and a syringe fulla tranquilizer...they'll take any opportunity to bag a 'terrorist security risk' this security lot...they're such a rare pedestrian species these 'terrorist security risks', bagging one'd be like having the Chupacabra's head on yer wall...

But Party Time arrived on time and clear as a bell...which pleased and relieved me greatly. The only loaded he was was money loaded. It were also a relief he'd the dregs of a London twang which made him easier to understand.

From his back pocket he pulled a roll of notes and handed it to me.

 - Here some money. We go fax yer car. Then you drive me a couple places.

 - That's the badger! I can get my wheels back again. No sweat Party Time. I'll drive you wherever you wanna go!

On our way back to mine we walked instead of getting the bus so's to catch up in private and not worry about a load of flapping ears taking all in. Party Time told me he'd got all the money he had, 5 grand in all, running methamphetamine for a Mr Big Time by the name of Leno. I can never remember the name of the area in London these people (mostly Filipinos) operate out of. Or maybe its that Party Time strategically leaves that bit out? but Leno, he told me, used to work for some Middle Eastern intelligence agency before he went to London and is very smart. And now he were making loads slinging mostly amphetamine, and being well in with the Met, providing them fall guys, small time hustlers with too much product on their hands – then the cops say they seized x-£'s worth of street drugs...a triumph of the community, and Leno goes about his (bigger) business...it was a move like this Leno tried to pull on Party Time which involved doppelgangers among other things, according to him, (Party Time).

 - But ah war too smart for him. Evaded him and the law jast in tam...Thah had anatha Patty Tam thah was slanging loads an war been a good dealer for 'em...so thah war gonna put me an thah frame and say he was me! Leno had has boys fallow me everywhere. Had a boy stand naxt tah me in Toxteth sayin, 'Yuh, I'm standing by him nah, wot yah want me tah do 'en?' But this Patty Tam (prodding his chest with his finger) too smart...plus I look nothing like that other Patty Tam...

Still, it were a riveting story all the same, but some of the stuff he were coming off with on that dander home were suspect, suspect at the very least: the most mendacious load of baloney involving the Filipinos (or Filli's, as he calls em) getting loaded on methamphetamine and being able to communicate telepathically...and their kids, he said, this is how they communicate generally anyway.

 - Like wan tam Silvi's (his woman) kid come in our room, after first night of me maikin sam dough far Leno, and the kid say: 'It in his shoe' which's war I had mah cash. I told Silvi bout this. She say: 'He said “Let's go to school,” not, “It's in yer shoe!!”

 - Well wouldn't that be more like the thing, Party Time? I think all that Crystal Methamphetamine has probably made you paranoid. - I said, irked & baffled.

He'll Take Your Heart And You Must Pay The Price

 I never think much about eyes, not much like in the way that our cultural and/or pseudo-psychiatry guardians do anyway with their seeming ability to discern what is being conveyed by the eyes of various folk, - that they can tell from just how the eyes are set etc all and everything about them.

The MK-Ultra victim, for example, will have eyes lost of all life and hope. Devoid of concepts, they are unresponsive to stimuli and nary a blink will they give were, say, a loud explosion to go off nearby. The eyes will show no sign that they're peering into the here and now. Then these paragons of virtue, those who usually hog up Newsnight Review and Loose Women, attribute a history to these people, how their eyes came to be like that, and they invent histories for them, - The MK-Ultra victim, her granddaddy pissing in her face and slapping her about as a child. The Man Who Lost A Wife Too Soon, they say, 'oh yes, of course! You could tell by his eyes that'd happened,' like these TV People don't regard the eyes as seeing organs, more as scrying pools to be gazed into and surmised over as to their phantasmagorical provenance.

Then they talk about a different kind of empty eyes, the empty eyes of the psychopath. This empty wasn't cruelly put there by fate or circumstance. These people have actually eaten their own joy (or whatever it is these TV people say exist in the eyes of The Happy Person). The psychopath has picked away at this enjoyably, like its a massive ball of scab, he has eaten his own humanity – and it is all indicated by 'the eyes'.....TV Pundits Make Me Sick!

But it were eyes today that were on my mind as I have noticed something strange about my left eye in the shape of these fat, thick white floaters. It were that I'd put this strangeness down to ghosts and orbs in the past; that I'd a special power that allowed me to witness dimensions close to this one, that my ken were set like a radio between stations, able to make out both clearly, but one fainter than the other. It was that I even witnessed the dreaded Shadow Beings, creatures composed of shadow that flit round the peripherals of this world. And while I think these are common things witnessed by all who look (properly), the orbs and ghosts I am now believing to think are actually cataracts.

So today I went down to the Cathedral Eye Clinic for an appointment to get to the bottom of things. And it turns out noting is wrong at all that a few eye drops and vitamin pills wouldn't put right. The optician was a right eccentric. He'd this feathery white beard and a big puff of white curly hair that he'd got all tied back. The back of his head looked like a cauliflower, and he jittered about giggling and rubbing his hands together looking like something from out of those Wheel Of Time books, like he should've been wearing chain mail with an axe across his back riding a fuckin Pegasus.

 - But Doctor, - I said.

 - I'm not a doctor, - he said more haughtily than most would.

 - Right, but – why am I getting these things floating round my eye, eh? I think there's something the matter!

 - Ha!Haaaa! That reminds me: What'd good ol' Spike Milligan want on his headstone??? That's right: I told you I was sick...That's right! - The oddball's eyes took on a gleam then. I was watching the eyes, watching the eyes, cognisant of the potential wisdom of the TV People. His eyes were full of mirth and good humour if anything. He looked more an more like the type of man who, in his spare time, would sit cross-legged on a barren rock somewhere out in the country, dressed in a toga, spouting platitudes via the medium of haiku, a terror and a wonder to passing hikers.

 Then I asked him, - But what can I do about these floating orbs of light? What?!

 It was then the mirth and humanity left the eyes, replaced by the dreaded EMPTY...- If you are going to ask me a stupid question you can expect to receive a clever answer! Eh? Eh??

 My face dropped. I was suddenly stunned by his switch. The eyes were not empty now, but held a kindling contempt.

He impatiently told me to get up and ushered me out to the reception, where the pretty blonde from earlier that'd signed me in had been replaced by a midget lady. The eye drops the oddball had administered at the start of the session to make my pupils dilate were making me squint. My vision was now truly blurred and I couldn't tell if the midget was a midget or if my depth of field were fucked. But then when she dropped her pen under the table she shimmied to the edge of her seat, hang-dropped off, then walked right under there without even stooping. So I stopped squinting as I believed she might think I were somehow mocking her and when she climbed back up in front of me and took my details I stood there my eyes wide open, big as an owl's, nodding and nodding and never blinking. Its all in the eyes, looks given and looks received.....Windows to the soul, though I like to keep my blinds down and my curtains drawn.......

 

Pretty Paper, Pretty Ribbons Of Blue, Wrap Your Presents To Your Darling From You

As featured in Third Sunday Blog Carnival

After that scatty little detour – haha! – I’m back functioning to the best of my abilities again and putting all the words in their proper order. Praise be! 

Christmas didn’t turn out too bad after all despite Mother inviting Uncle Dudley, who, at this time of year, gets pissed every day from the night of Children In Need onward till he’s stone broke a few days after New Year’s and he can drink no more. I would suppose that he is drunk more so between this period as it is fair to say he is drunk generally most the year round. 

In this very drunk state he tends to antagonise people, crossly accusing them of engineering plots to bring about his downfall. Trying to get them to own up to these conspiracy’s – or he'll at least, finally, pleadingly, request some abstract clue as to how to avoid ruin.

As well in attendance were that fucking holyjoe moonbeam Nirab, who before Christmas Dinner tried to fucking rap grace, then gimmie a wink after like I’d think he were fuckin boss of the bus or something. Earlier to that, to freak Nirab out, Uncle Dudley held one of Mother’s many crosses over the flame from the cooker in the kitchen then stuck it into his forehead upside down branding himself with it, like Glen Benton outta Deicide. All through dinner Uncle Dudley sat staring out Nirab trying to freak him out with his mad upside down cross, but that dirty snake Nirab, cold and barren as a nun’s cervix, didn’t take him on at all – making me think it mattered to him neither way the wanton sacrilege of the Gentle Jesus’ Club pin badge.

After dinner Micheesha, Stupid Peter and their kids came in. Micheesha’d told Mother on Christmas Eve Eve that she was on some special diet and that she couldn’t have the usual X-mas fare. But that was all lies, cos she told me, in secret, that Mother’s turkey when she did it it was like plasterboard garnished with sawdust and wrapped in sandpaper going down, which is exactly how I’d described it last year, and was exactly how it were this year. That selfish cunt Nirab went through a jug and a half of water on his.

Over brandy and Christmas pud’ Nirab turned his attentions to Uncle Dudley and beat him in the staring out game. Uncle Dudley began to cry like he does when drunk/emotional and got the better of. Then Nirab nearly choked on the penny in the pudding and everybody laughed, apart from Mother, who beat Nirab’s back rapidly, squealing and trying to get it up…

We retired into Mother’s lounge to get pissed and I asked Micheesha what she’d had for dinner instead.

 - We stapped at thuh fuckin Muck’Danalds over utt Connswater!

 - Lucky packa cunt’s, - I went. – You have any burgers left in the motor?

 - Do I fuck! – Went Micheesha. - Fuckin kids gobbled em up like Hungry Hungry Hippos. Me and Stupid Peter only hod a carton of chips between us! I'm'Ah be starvin, Danny! And so'll Stupid Peter. And he cant hold his liquor at thuh besta times, nevur mine when he's boozin! 

I went outside and got into Stupid Peter’s car and sniffed some empty McDonald’s bags to get my taste buds working again after getting them terraformed by Mother’s dry bird. After that I found one of the children’s Heat Magazines and pulled one out over Tina from Corrie going to some X-mas do all dressed to the 9’s. When I were done I stared into the sky and resolved to get some authentic muff in 2012. Then I went back inside.

In the short time I’d been out Nirab had recruited Stupid Peter into his God cult. I tried to renounce Nirab and his fairy tales and tell Stupid Peter that Christ the Messiah was most likely a prototype EBE*, a forerunner of common man – now broke from the shackles of apeman impulses by being imbued with Space Genes, transforming us into the fast thinking, imaginative and above all compassionate specimens we are today…

 

But Stupid Peter was well gone, all the way along Nirab’s Yellow Brick Road. I give up on him then ruminated on Nirab’s powers of persuasion, his stealth and speed and cunning in getting the simple minded to get on his side. And I also begun to wonder had I found our front man in me and Party Time’s Credit Card Fraud scheme…if so, the first stop was getting to see if he were in any financial dif’s one way or another…Maybe a drab, hopeless Christmas and a ominous New Year were beginning to look up, the fortunes flipping, an inversion of fate, as in like Uncle Dudley’s upside down God’s cross stuck into his noggin.

*EBE: Extraterrestrial Biological Entity

I Miss The Comfort In being Sad

Christmas is coming and there was no even hope to get the cunt, my mother, even a token. I got her a false witness wrapped in a bow; a disease covered pungent sound...Nirab's hirab-ed 3-stage blender mulcher was one thing even her life never spread to, but provided for little cousins' md nephews and shifty eyed peadophile

There were this blotchy cunt came up to mah in the Garage round the corner from me, there was this reatard, this Educationally Subnormal who told me he'd recurring dreams abouts canine fucksex falling zitpoppped, spewring ,splewhing, but really dri'ven from the root and splashed across the fucking mantle offfffffffff...

I don'tknow what else to sat. there is some evl in this world. There are children that will tesify to: 'They tortured my penis...' and girls' that say: 'they ate mah clit...'...Evil, horrible cannibalistic shit; shit beyond the survival I believe, shit beyond occult, routine, occult/routine?....Be you sacrificing yir foxes or yir orphans I am pulp-palp-In

No, but you gotta keep yer eyes open, 'if ye wanna sling, sling for what yih slingin fir,' says Party Time, and 'keep yir eyes peeled 4 those'll try'an fuck'you!!!'. ' Samw as in J_______, or C_______ T____ or B__________ or U__________ or G__________ or wherever, but what I got plannned, beyond these weekend gangasteres yir all so annomoured with is them fearful shut-in's, those wierdo's and oddballs who don;t just quite get it in the here&now but who will do when its all too late but (and its all in the downlow from here on in) then I hopr we'll be: baricade behind our door, with: a wardrobe, a cache of tinned goods, a source of light, a source of radio, a baracade and weapons ands weapons and weapons and whatever Mad Otis can exchange, cos that's the limits that I think the controlllers will bring us to.........

Gideon's Words Will Not Save Them

I tried hanging myself the other day as Party Time's gone and done a bunk and I was left to go round to the shop to buy heating credits, something I just couldn't be bothered doing – and so I thought to myself, 'instead of having to go outside into the cold night to buy heating and thus being left to freeze to death here at home I may as well just get it over with and kill myself by hanging.' But, would you credit it? The fucking rope I got outta the cupboard under the sink were too long and when I threw myself off the upstairs landing I landed smack on my ankle right in the front hall, the rope still well slack. And now that fuckin ankle's massively swollen up and aches dully and continually.

Party Time and I hit a little impasse in our Credit Card Fraud scheme by the fact that we learned that a few online transactions require a Billing Address + we still can't come up with good cover for snapping folks' cards on our phones (ideas here would be appreciated).

Ju-Ju Brush moved out after a week and a half or so after he met some ex of his in the Slimeshite (The Limelight) who took pity on him and brought him home to nurse him back to wellness, sorta like you would a wounded cat you'd found on the road.

I am glad of this, his moving out, as his Harmonium playing was getting right on my goat. As well as this he had started doing my nut in with his autistic recollection of Top 10's from the last fifteen years. He'd shout em out (Bruno Brooks/Tony Blackburn styli) sounding like a right Head Spastic – like those lags in prison who recite, verbatim, horse racing commentary out loud to keep their mind busy.

Still, I miss having company, and that cat, who I've named Worf (cos he's a clingy little cunt – a little Klingon), has some unidentifiable learning difficulty and as a result is no fun at all. He is robotic in his movements and completely unresponsive to stimuli. I even caught a little mouse in a trap out the back and tied him to a piece of fishing line, dangling it in front of Worf, but he didn't even display a disinterested contempt, just a...nothingness. Definitely a retarded feline...

I am reminded of Kimba's birth mother by this halfwit cat. She used to live in a very tiny bedsit on India Street off Botanic. As her quarters were so small she couldn't have what she wanted most in the world, which was a 'Cute little Puddy Cath' as she put it, irritatingly, with fake lisp and all...So she went and bought this robot cat outta Argos, some child's thing, what did a few tricks. One trick was it could respond to this trinket-y mouse shaped lazer pen thingy by following it with its eyes very slowly when you shone it on the wall. It moved its head like an elderly woman with arthritis in her neck and its miaows sounded like the wails of those abandoned Romanian orphans you see on the news every so often. She finally got sick of it and took it apart, hanging its head and other bits of it from her Christmas Tree one year.

Tonight I am considering whether to put a tree up or not. Thinking of Kimba's birth mother's robot cat I am inevitably brought back to the memory of Kimba herself via the mother. Thoughts wrought sadly thinking that the company I'd like most of all this time of year would be her's, and on Christmas Day, opening presents with her sitting under our big grand colourful Christmas Tree that she always made up so pretty, we'd tell blue jokes to one another from outta the latest Viz Annual and get drunk on Vodka shots...ah, the technicolor memories strung with blinking plastic lights.

They'd Dance To The Rhythm Of The Rain Falling Down, In A Northern Industrial Town

Ju-Ju Brush, me and Party Time have been getting on famously.

He cooks and cleans and plays us little Irish ditties on his tin whistle after supper.

Still, he hasn't been much of a help on mine and Party Time's scheme of Credit Card Fraud. I think it is to do with his personal morality stopping him from thinking creatively or intuitively about it. Sort of like when the Puritanical lot ran the show, nobody could think of any way of fucking outside of the missionary position – then, with the gradual casting-off of mores – from the advent of the printing press to Nietzsche and the pill, people tried it different ways, thought about it more imaginatively, leading to porn & snuff, what we got now, turning a profit more or less.

So that was why Ju-Ju had to get over the morality hump and think about things more imaginatively. If sexual liberation < snuff were any indication then amorality > self enrichment were the way to go. And I knew he had creativity flowing through his organs – his musical prowess proved this – but he had to harness this Gog/Magog given power, give himself over to it and abandon this self imposed morality, only a earthbound false construct anyway...

So I said to Ju-Ju, - Ju-Ju, look man: There ain't no sin been committed in Credit Card Fraud. Nobody gets robbed, nobody gets hurt. The bank pays out, baby! What you got actually is a very moral act. We rob these people and the bank pays em back, so in effect we robbin the bank, y'know?!

 - Well you still are sort of robbing somebody...-

 - You fuckin serious? Really? I suppose though banks and corporations got status as peoples now, don't they? But they've robbed from the public purse in a massive transfer of wealth. And now they aren't paying back their debt, but giving their bosses big fuck-off bonuses again. If you lend your pal a fiver you expect him to pay you back right? Well these fuckers aren't...so what we're doin is beginning to re-right the balance of things.

 - Yeah...but that's not really my point...I mean some bank manager might get demoted, or a cleaner might get laid off, -

 - Fuck em...you not been listening what I'm saying? Some bank manager gets the chop – he's a legitimate victim...so to speak...

 - And what about the cleaner? What about him or her? That's the thing, ain't it? I mean I been fucked plenty and it ain't pleasant, so I made a vow to myself never to fuck anyone else....

 -Fuckin hell then man. OK.

Boy's gonna take some work...

I took a walk out to clear my head and think of new ways to talk Ju-Ju round when I found I'd dandered right into town without even noticing. I began to wonder then about the new Titanic fervor bubbling round here: the 'Unsinkable Ship' now never sunk, always rising from the depths, exhumed from the deep deep sea in the shape of models, and scale models, and life like models, and Hollywood (Mafia $$$ backed) Motion Pictures. I thought to myself: this phenomena, this cultural attachment to a tragedy and a disaster, costing 3000 souls, celebrated/commemorated and turned into a theme park attraction, a Spielbergian vision of mass perishing. But we here seem to get beset with tragedy and disaster, and while the Titanic was a tragic act of God our latest run of tragedy and disaster in the shape of “The Troubles” was completely man-made and also cost around 3000 souls and (but also) pulls in the tourist pound. There has also been Hollywood Motion Pictures made about The Troubles too, and no doubt when everything, the rest of the 'Dirty War', gets swept under the carpet entirely and occasionally apologised for, there'll be models, and scale models, and life like models done in action figurines, and video games, and nerdish reenactments, respectively.

So, I thought, if 3000 souls lost on a sunken ship calls for a theme park, then 3000 souls lost to bullets and Semtex can, too...and how much more fun that would be....sure, fuck, it'd be like a day out at the LazerQuest so it would!!!!!!!!!!!!

And so I thought if some Freemason developer can build his Titanic Theme Park, then fuckin, me, Daniel Pongo can build his fuckin “The Troubles” LazerQuest....but first....but first....you gotta spend money to make money – and when you gotta spend money you gotta have money – but when you don't have money you gotta steal money – and who we gonna steal money off? The banks. And who's gonna do it? Party Time, Ju-Ju Brush and Daniel Pongo...

Try To Tell The Truth And Stand Your Ground - Don't Let The Bastards Get You Down

Today I were walking through town with Party Time when this crazy old man coming toward us in the opposite direction (this was going along Wellington Place) stops this oul doll, a fat valuer-sporting millie, and a youngster stuck between them both, holding granny and mummy's hand (for that was the scene), and the crazy old man, he leans down to the youngster (a boy), and takes his head between his hands, gently, and starts to moo at him and scrunch up his face all sentimental and sad like, then he screams, right in the boy's face “That's the badger!” And just like that he goes on, doing a twirl and mumbling to himself a happy ditty – then, as he draws up level with us, he laughs and groans and laughs and groans over and over again, - his frame goes all loose and he looks skyward, curling his fingers up, thrusting his hands up in the air imploringly toward a greater power. I look past him and I see the youngster has appeared to have passed out and is being dragged along by the granny and mummy to their great consternation. I am linking the two. Thinking the crazy old man happened to have caused the unconsciousness of the youngster through the power of thought alone.

Party Time and I went and sat outside a greasy spoon called The Windmill; drinking coffee just like proper gangsters. It is my contention that Party Time's plan to surreptitiously photograph the fronts of peoples' Credit Cards is an inspired criminal strategy....It allows for the fraudster to circumvent the time limit imposed when actually tea-leafing a Credit Card – the time limit due to the owner realising the card's gone and ringing his bank to cancel it. I mean...you got the details off the front of the card, photographed, and memorised the 3-digit security number on the back. Cunt's not gonna know what's happened till he gets his statement in and that could be weeks away – by then we coulda bought up half the department stores in Belfast on the fucker's dime.

So it was up to me and Party Time to devise the hook. As in: how do we get a hold of peoples' Credit Cards? What sort of front do we set up that people will hand over their Credit Cards long enough for one of us to get a snap of it on our phone.

Just as the both of us sunk back in our chairs in a pensive and criminal repose - trying to devise a scheme - along comes a great old pal of mine, Ju-Ju Brush.

 - Hello there, Ju-Ju Brush, - I said.

 - Danny Pongo! How're you doin old pal? - exclaimed Ju-Ju Brush.

After Ju-Ju Brush got himself a nice old cup of java he joined me and Party Time at our table and before he even took a tentative little sip to check for hotness he launches into this halting and sad monologue about his recent troubles...and I haven't even seen the cunt in fuckin years.

 - Danny, I'm in shockin trouble.

 - Oh dear. What seems to be the problem, Ju-Ju?

 - Well Danny, you remember back in school I used to play the harmonium, don't you?

 - That I do Ju-Ju.

 - Well I kept it up, after school like, became a regular on the circuits with my trusty harmonium. Then 6 months ago I moved in with that cunt, that fuckin DJ bastard Pilers McCake, you know him, Danny?

 - Oh yes. Local mover & shaker and scene setter. Has a little parochial hour on our local State Sponsored airwaves.

 - That's him. Well he put me in his band. Thought I was destined for the Big Time, so I did. Gonna put the harmonium on the musical map, you know, Danny?

 - That I do, Ju-Ju. I'm a champion of the underdog mahself -

 - Right, so you know were I'm coming from. Well we recorded a demo and fuckin Pilers McCake goes away and remixes it. Fuckin back masks the harmonium -

 - Whah thah than? - Asks Party Time.

 - That's when they, like, play an instrument backward over a track. And so that's what the cunt did. Fuckin harmonium's gonna be the laughing stock of the music world now. You should hear it! And this McCake cunt with his mate Bamber Swirlington, that here's-me-and-who's-like-me coke-fiend nincompoop editor of Assassins Of Cool Magazine, are gonna be releasing the demo this week, with an eye on releasing it as a single. This can't happen. So I sent a coffeejar bomb to Assassins Of Cool Magazine's offices. It weren't real, like. Just a big coffeejar with a little clock inside with two batteries bluetac'd on and a few wires sellotaped to the back of it. Then I wrote a letter to the controllers over at the State Sponsored Airwaves up there, told them that Pilers McCake was not a man possessed of musical integrity but possessed very much of a great and sleeket mendacity and that they should take him off the airwaves at once. I also sent the police and the controllers over the State Sponsored Airwaves photos I'd mocked up of Pilers and Bamber going at it with an Alsatian and Madeline McCann respectively.

 - Good on ye, Ju-Ju. They won't know their arse from their elbow now!

 - Yeah but then the shit turned ugly. The photos were a joke. Yid've known they were a photoshop job a mile off. The Controllers of the State Sponsored Airwaves launched an investigation and the cops've put out an APB for me arrest. Shit's turned REAL bad. Cops, I hear, are itching to pin a terrorist charge on someone that ain't the Provo Tribute Acts -

 - Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaha! That's what I call em too, - I chortled.

 Ju-Ju Brush looked at me a moment or two, a little perturbed, then continued, - Yeh, so, the PSNI have been told they gotta up their quota of Muslim Terror Cells here, and I've been told by folk that while there ain't many of them around Belfast, some loan wolf nut like me, sending pretend bombs to poncey music magazines, is just right up their alley.

 - Well Ju-Ju Brush, Me and my cousin Party Time here are a little at a loss in getting together a little scheme we got goin down. Maybe we could get another head in on trying to devise a jumping off point for it. Why'nt you come hang out with us for a bit? Player Haters will always find safe harbour with us, ain't that right Party Time?

 - Thah rah, - said Party Time.

So we drank back the rest of our coffee the three of us and went off sneaking cautiously through entries all the way back home just all so Ju-Ju Brush weren't spotted by the law..........

Diamond In The Back, Sunroof Top, Diggin' The Scene With A Gangster Lean

Party Time, thank fuck, was able to secure himself a crisis loan from the brew today – so this weekend we'll be eating.

I was beginning to think that he was going to eat the cat (not calling him Gore Vidal anymore) so hungry was he. His stomach rumbled all last night, something sounding like the pained moans of a wounded creature echoing through the deep, dark cave it'd crawled away to die in.

When I am hungry like this I swallow my spit a lot. Swallow, swallow swallow. As a child I thought I didn't need to work in school to get a good job cos you didn't need money, really:

 - And what you gonna eat. What food you gonna buy with no money? - Scolded Mother when I began striking from doing homework.

 - I'll eat my own shit if it comes to it. Eat it, Shit it, Eat it, Shit it – Just go and sit somewhere along Castle Street begging till I make up enough coin to get me a Big Mac Meal...and...Eat it, Shit it, Eat it, Shit it...

 - What is WRONG with you, eh? Trembled Mother.

And last night I were thinking, really: was my childhood naivety and general lack of rudimentary biological & toxicological facts really so naïve? Were it really so bad? To eat yer own feces if absolutely starving? Those chicks in 2girls 1cup did it, and them on 'specialised' pornstar wages, they  wouldn't have needed to eat shit cos they were starving, but cos they wanted to get paid – and so if you can eat shit to get paid you can eat shit to eat is what I were turning over in my dried up, nutrient starved brain.

I proposed my ideas to Party Time but he didn't like em at all.

He told me it were beyond savage. That a savage would kill and eat another savage,:

 - Bat somethan b'yand savage eat at awn shat!

 - What about we shoot a few birds outta Mrs Mullberry's trees and eat them?

 - Nah. Ah wall nat eat a crate-ture aff thah ska.

I rolled around holding my belly and nibbling on an orange peel I found up the side of the cooker. Party Time began doing exercises.

 - Ah hav idea, Danny.

 - What?

 - Ah wash tinkin. Wah fatagraft papals' cradat card.

 - How we manage to do that? And why?

 - Ah danna yacht, hah. But aff wah culd, wah have all thah dat-tails wah need tah rap a cant aff jast fram ah sall-fone fatta aff thah frant aff has card, an mammary-rising thah scare-ity nambah an thah bach an rattin thah dan wan his gane!

 - That's not a bad idea Party Time. Not at all is that a bad idea. Cos that's all you need, right? The 'Long Number', the name, valid to – and – from, all what you'll get of the phone-photo of the front of it...and that security number yiv got written down. Then we'll go online and buy up a loada shit. Sell it down in Cash Convertors, what we don't want! Fuckin hell, you big cunt, that's the first brilliantly criminal thing yiv come up with, despite yer gangster leanings. Goddamn! I may be starving, but this deserves a fitting tune, cousin!!! We'll think of HOW we do it when we've something in our bellies and our energy's up!

Its Time For A Cowboy To Dream

Yesterday morning's Jeremy Kyle show was entitled 'Kids Used To Call Me Burnt Toast'.

The poor girl that Kyle was emotionally effacing had a head like a raisin. She had no nose and her eyes were all watery and closed over like the eyes of poor bunnies that get shampoo poured in em for shampoo safety testing.

As is always the case with Kyle's contestants the reason for her horrific head (the result of very severe burns) was bad parenting – this time in the shape of a drunken father with one arm and a glass eye who poured a chip pan fulla hot fat into her cot where she slept.

At his trial he claimed he was going for the girl's dog that'd shite in his slipper, but the dog, being cunning, slid under the cot at just the right time to avoid the torrent of boiling chip fat.

I had a wank over one of the dimwits in the audience then got up to go down and wait for the man to come fix my light.

Downstairs Party Time had effected his plan to cover up the holes he'd made in the living room walls trying to shoot that bat with his lead pellet rifle. He'd gotten these big white sheets from somewhere and painted on them all, very crudely, all these bestial, pornographic figures engaged in carnal acts – large groups of figures, some fellating rectangle shaped cocks sprouting from big thick sausage shaped legs, some shagging children and animals, others weeping in corners - all ferocious, fevered stuff rendered in scouring reds and blacks. He had hung them right the way around the room, covering every inch of wall. It looked like cave paintings done by a deranged primitive.

 - What the fuck is this filth, Party Time? - I said.

 - At ash murals cavrin the holy walls.

 - The man's gonna think we're involved in some type of sex ritual cult, you know...fuckin hell, man!

 - Hah wall nat. Papal dant care abat yer prah-vat afars. He ah spark calming tah fax yer light, nat a social car warker!

 - I'm not very confident about this situation Party Time, I have to say...

It turned out I'd nothing to worry about. Some boss eyed moron arrived whistling The Sash and got it sorted in 15 minute, and in that time, in order to distract him from Party Time's crayon-eater sex doodles, I said to him:

Bit outta season for that wee ditty ain't it?

Every day's the 12^th in this here head mate, - he said tapping his temple.

Ah the glorious 12^th, eh?

Most glorious day of the year, mate!

Ahhh..., - I went. - Here, you like shadow puppets, - I went, making a little rabbit ears on my white hall wall. The year-round Orangeman was greatly taken by this.

He a Orange monkey? - He went.

No he's a loyalist rabbit! - Said I.

Later me and Party Time went round to Micheesha's so I could see if she'd lend me a score. Mother was with her, crying into her tea.

It turns out she's a rival in her love affair with Nirab. She says this rival uses the successes of her children in a point scoring game with her.

 - I wish I could say you two were both dead...but I can't cos Nirab knows yer both alive, he's met you both...but if I said you were dead, both of you, at least I could get out of this game with Lavinya and cash in some sympathy chips with the rest of The Movement (Nirab's God Cult) - said Mother, bawling.

 - You could say I do special work for the government that you can't talk about, - I offered.

 - I think its fuckin offensive if you ask me, - moaned Micheesha. - Yah want us dead do you? We'll I'll tell you wah, sometimes I wish I were dead w'these fuckin chill'rin pesterin me for shite 24/7 and Stupid Peter comin in all hours of the day and night smellin ah other dolls' cunt seepage – I FUCKIN WISH I WAS DEAD SOMETIMES - so tell you what, Ma, you buy us the ticket tah that suicide camp over in Switzerland or whereever the fuck and i'll go there, get their shot, and I'll be outta yer hair then, eh?

 - ...Or I could say you got a family, Micheesha, but even at that Nirab knows none, not one of those wains are from the same seed, - went Mother like what Micheesha had just said had washed over her in an amnesiac dropout.

 - Ah fuck ye then, - whined Micheesha -

 I for one thought it better not to ask for a lend of a score of Micheesha now. So me and Party Time left.

No money and in for a hungry night. 

 

So Let Your Cold Blue Lonely Strings Cry Once Again For Me

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