Out Of Nowhere Into Nothing

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

2012-01-10T23:25:00.000Z

I'd to take a run over to the CityAirport this afternoon as Party Time had sent word that he was comingback from London today and that he wanted me there waiting for him gettingoff the plane. I reckoned this were him anticipating himself goingbananas again, like when he came back that last time loaded and I'd tochase him across a McDonald's carpark when he went after this cripplewith a screwdriver. His instructions to me were to inject him withtranquilizers and/or taze him were he to act up. He told me thetranquilizers along with his stungun were in a shoebox under the sofa.

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

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

From his back pocket he pulled a rollof 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 wheelsback again. No sweat Party Time. I'll drive you wherever you wannago!

On our way back to mine we walkedinstead of getting the bus so's to catch up in private and not worryabout a load of flapping ears taking all in. Party Time told me he'dgot all the money he had, 5 grand in all, running methamphetamine fora Mr Big Time by the name of Leno. I can never remember the name ofthe area in London these people (mostly Filipinos) operate out of. Or maybe itsthat Party Time strategically leaves that bit out? but Leno, he toldme, used to work for some Middle Eastern intelligence agency beforehe went to London and is very smart. And now he were making loads slinging mostlyamphetamine, and being well in with the Met, providing them fallguys, 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 thecommunity, and Leno goes about his (bigger) business...it was a movelike this Leno tried to pull on Party Time which involveddoppelgangers among other things, according to him, (Party Time).

- But ah war too smart for him. Evadedhim and the law jast in tam...Thah had anatha Patty Tam thah wasslanging loads an war been a good dealer for 'em...so thah war gonna put me an thah frame and say hewas me! Leno had has boys fallow me everywhere. Had a boy stand naxttah me in Toxteth sayin, 'Yuh, I'm standing by him nah, wot yah wantme tah do 'en?' But this Patty Tam (prodding his chest with his finger) too smart...plus I look nothinglike that other Patty Tam...

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

- Like wan tam Silvi's (his woman) kidcome 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 toldSilvi bout this. She say: 'He said “Let's go to school,” not,“It's in yer shoe!!”

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

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

2012-01-09T23:13:00.000Z

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

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

Then they talk about a different kindof empty eyes, the empty eyes of the psychopath. This empty wasn'tcruelly put there by fate or circumstance. These people have actuallyeaten their own joy (or whatever it is these TV people say exist inthe eyes of The Happy Person). The psychopath has picked away at thisenjoyably, like its a massive ball of scab, he has eaten his ownhumanity – and it is all indicated by 'the eyes'.....TV PunditsMake Me Sick!

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

So today I went down to the CathedralEye Clinic for an appointment to get to the bottom of things. And itturns out noting is wrong at all that a few eye drops and vitaminpills wouldn't put right. The optician was a right eccentric. He'dthis 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 acauliflower, and he jittered about giggling and rubbing his handstogether looking like something from out of those Wheel Of Timebooks, like he should've been wearing chain mail with an axe acrosshis back riding a fuckin Pegasus.

- But Doctor, - I said.

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

- Right, but – why am I getting thesethings floating round my eye, eh? I think there's something thematter!

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

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

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

My face dropped. I was suddenlystunned by his switch. The eyes were not empty now, but held akindling contempt.

He impatiently told me to get up andushered me out to the reception, where the pretty blonde from earlierthat'd signed me in had been replaced by a midget lady. The eye dropsthe oddball had administered at the start of the session to make mypupils dilate were making me squint. My vision was now truly blurredand I couldn't tell if the midget was a midget or if my depth offield were fucked. But then when she dropped her pen under the tableshe shimmied to the edge of her seat, hang-dropped off, then walkedright under there without even stooping. So I stopped squinting as Ibelieved she might think I were somehow mocking her and when sheclimbed back up in front of me and took my details I stood there myeyes wide open, big as an owl's, nodding and nodding and neverblinking. Its all in the eyes, looks given and looksreceived.....Windows to the soul, though I like to keep my blindsdown and my curtains drawn.......

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

2011-12-28T03:36:00.000Z

As featured in Third Sunday Blog Carnival

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

Christmas didn’t turn out too bad after all despite Motherinviting 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 andhe can drink no more. I would suppose that he is drunk more so between thisperiod as it is fair to say he is drunk generally most the year round.

In thisvery drunk state he tends to antagonise people, crossly accusing them ofengineering plots to bring about his downfall. Trying to get them to own up tothese conspiracy’s – or he'll at least, finally, pleadingly, request some abstractclue as to how to avoid ruin.

As well in attendance were that fucking holyjoe moonbeamNirab, who before Christmas Dinner tried to fucking rap grace, then gimmie awink after like I’d think he were fuckin boss of the bus or something. Earlier to that, to freakNirab out, Uncle Dudley held one of Mother’s many crosses over the flame fromthe cooker in the kitchen then stuck it into his forehead upside down brandinghimself with it, like Glen Benton outta Deicide. All through dinner UncleDudley sat staring out Nirab trying to freak him out with his mad upside down cross, but that dirty snakeNirab, cold and barren as a nun’s cervix, didn’t take him on at all – making methink 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 dietand that she couldn’t have the usual X-mas fare. But that was all lies, cos shetold me, in secret, that Mother’s turkey when she did it it was like plasterboardgarnished with sawdust and wrapped in sandpaper going down, which is exactlyhow I’d described it last year, and was exactly how it were this year. Thatselfish cunt Nirab went through a jug and a half of water on his.

Over brandy and Christmas pud’ Nirab turned his attentionsto Uncle Dudley and beat him in the staring out game. Uncle Dudley began to crylike he does when drunk/emotional and got the better of. Then Nirab nearlychoked 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 askedMicheesha what she’d had for dinner instead.

- We stapped at thuhfuckin Muck’Danalds over utt Connswater!

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

- Do I fuck! – WentMicheesha. - 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 someempty McDonald’s bags to get my taste buds working again after getting themterraformed 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 doall dressed to the 9’s. When I were done I stared into the sky and resolved to get some authentic muffin 2012. Then I went back inside.

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

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

*EBE: Extraterrestrial Biological Entity

I Miss The Comfort In being Sad

2011-12-23T04:50:00.000Z

Christmas is coming and there was noeven hope to get the cunt, my mother, even a token. I got her a falsewitness wrapped in a bow; a disease covered pungent sound...Nirab'shirab-ed 3-stage blender mulcher was one thing even her life neverspread to, but provided for little cousins' md nephews and shiftyeyed peadophile

There were this blotchy cunt came up tomah in the Garage round the corner from me, there was this reatard,this Educationally Subnormal who told me he'd recurring dreams aboutscanine fucksex falling zitpoppped, spewring ,splewhing, but reallydri'ven from the root and splashed across the fucking mantleofffffffffff...

I don'tknow what else to sat. there issome evl in this world. There are children that will tesify to: 'Theytortured my penis...' and girls' that say: 'they ate mahclit...'...Evil, horrible cannibalistic shit; shit beyond thesurvival I believe, shit beyond occult, routine,occult/routine?....Be you sacrificing yir foxes or yir orphans I ampulp-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 asin J_______, or C_______ T____ or B__________ or U__________ orG__________ or wherever, but what I got plannned, beyond theseweekend gangasteres yir all so annomoured with is them fearfulshut-in's, those wierdo's and oddballs who don;t just quite get it inthe here&now but who will do when its all too late but (and itsall in the downlow from here on in) then I hopr we'll be: baricadebehind our door, with: a wardrobe, a cache of tinned goods, a sourceof light, a source of radio, a baracade and weapons ands weapons andweapons and whatever Mad Otis can exchange, cos that's the limitsthat I think the controlllers will bring us to.........

Gideon's Words Will Not Save Them

2011-12-11T20:54:00.001Z

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

Party Time and I hit a little impassein our Credit Card Fraud scheme by the fact that we learned that afew online transactions require a Billing Address + we still can'tcome up with good cover for snapping folks' cards on our phones(ideas here would be appreciated).

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

I am glad of this, his moving out, ashis Harmonium playing was getting right on my goat. As well as thishe had started doing my nut in with his autistic recollection of Top10's from the last fifteen years. He'd shout em out (BrunoBrooks/Tony Blackburn styli) sounding like a right Head Spastic –like those lags in prison who recite, verbatim, horse racing commentary outloud to keep their mind busy.

Still, I miss having company, and thatcat, who I've named Worf (cos he's a clingy little cunt – a littleKlingon), has some unidentifiable learning difficulty and as a resultis no fun at all. He is robotic in his movements and completelyunresponsive to stimuli. I even caught a little mouse in a trap outthe back and tied him to a piece of fishing line, dangling it infront 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 motherby this halfwit cat. She used to live in a very tiny bedsit on IndiaStreet off Botanic. As her quarters were so small she couldn't havewhat she wanted most in the world, which was a 'Cute little PuddyCath' as she put it, irritatingly, with fake lisp and all...So shewent and bought this robot cat outta Argos, some child's thing, whatdid a few tricks. One trick was it could respond to this trinket-ymouse shaped lazer pen thingy by following it with its eyes veryslowly when you shone it on the wall. It moved its head like anelderly woman with arthritis in her neck and its miaows sounded likethe wails of those abandoned Romanian orphans you see on the newsevery so often. She finally got sick of it and took it apart, hangingits head and other bits of it from her Christmas Tree one year.

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

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

2011-12-04T22:53:00.001Z

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

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

Still, he hasn't been much of a help onmine and Party Time's scheme of Credit Card Fraud. I think it is todo with his personal morality stopping him from thinking creativelyor intuitively about it. Sort of like when the Puritanical lot ranthe show, nobody could think of any way of fucking outside of themissionary 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 moreimaginatively, leading to porn & snuff, what we got now, turning aprofit more or less.

So that was why Ju-Ju had to get overthe 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 knewhe had creativity flowing through his organs – his musical prowessproved this – but he had to harness this Gog/Magog given power,give himself over to it and abandon this self imposed morality, only aearthbound 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 getsrobbed, nobody gets hurt. The bank pays out, baby! What you gotactually is a very moral act. We rob these people and the bank paysem back, so in effect we robbin the bank, y'know?!

- Well you still are sort of robbingsomebody...-

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

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

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

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

-Fuckin hell then man. OK.

Boy's gonna take some work...

I took a walk out to clear my head andthink of new ways to talk Ju-Ju round when I found I'd dandered rightinto town without even noticing. I began to wonder then about the newTitanic fervor bubbling round here: the 'Unsinkable Ship' now never sunk, alwaysrising 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, thiscultural attachment to a tragedy and a disaster, costing 3000 souls,celebrated/commemorated and turned into a theme park attraction, aSpielbergian vision of mass perishing. But we here seem to get besetwith tragedy and disaster, and while the Titanic was a tragic act ofGod our latest run of tragedy and disaster in the shape of “TheTroubles” was completely man-made and also cost around 3000 soulsand (but also) pulls in the tourist pound. There has also been HollywoodMotion Pictures made about The Troubles too, and no doubt when everything,the rest of the 'Dirty War', gets swept under the carpet entirely andoccasionally apologised for, there'll be models, and scale models,and life like models done in action figurines, and video games, andnerdish reenactments, respectively.

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

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

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

2011-11-22T01:21:00.001Z

Today I were walking through town withParty Time when this crazy old man coming toward us in the opposite direction (this was goingalong Wellington Place) stops this oul doll, a fat valuer-sportingmillie, and a youngster stuck between them both, holding granny andmummy'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 tomoo at him and scrunch up his face all sentimental and sad like, thenhe screams, right in the boy's face “That's the badger!” And justlike that he goes on, doing a twirl and mumbling to himself a happyditty – then, as he draws up level with us, he laughs and groansand laughs and groans over and over again, - his frame goes all looseand he looks skyward, curling his fingers up, thrusting his hands up inthe air imploringly toward a greater power. I look past him and I seethe youngster has appeared to have passed out and is being draggedalong by the granny and mummy to their great consternation. I amlinking the two. Thinking the crazy old man happened to have causedthe unconsciousness of the youngster through the power of thought alone.

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

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

Just as the both of us sunk back in ourchairs 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 niceold cup of java he joined me and Party Time at our table and beforehe even took a tentative little sip to check for hotness he launchesinto this halting and sad monologue about his recent troubles...and Ihaven'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 inschool 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 6months ago I moved in with that cunt, that fuckin DJ bastard PilersMcCake, you know him, Danny?

- Oh yes. Local mover & shaker andscene setter. Has a little parochial hour on our local StateSponsored airwaves.

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

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

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

- Whah thah than? - Asks Party Time.

- That's when they, like, play aninstrument backward over a track. And so that's what the cunt did.Fuckin harmonium's gonna be the laughing stock of the music worldnow. You should hear it! And this McCake cunt with his mate Bamber Swirlington, thathere's-me-and-who's-like-me coke-fiend nincompoop editor of AssassinsOf Cool Magazine, are gonna be releasing the demo this week, with aneye on releasing it as a single. This can't happen. So I sent acoffeejar bomb to Assassins Of Cool Magazine's offices. It weren'treal, like. Just a big coffeejar with a little clock inside with twobatteries 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 SponsoredAirwaves up there, told them that Pilers McCake was not a manpossessed of musical integrity but possessed very much of a great andsleeket mendacity and that they should take him off the airwaves atonce. I also sent the police and the controllers over the StateSponsored Airwaves photos I'd mocked up of Pilers and Bamber going atit with an Alsatian and Madeline McCann respectively.

- Good on ye, Ju-Ju. They won't knowtheir 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 mileoff. The Controllers of the State Sponsored Airwaves launched aninvestigation and the cops've put out an APB for me arrest. Shit'sturned REAL bad. Cops, I hear, are itching to pin a terrorist chargeon 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 ortwo, a little perturbed, then continued, - Yeh, so, the PSNI havebeen told they gotta up their quota of Muslim Terror Cells here, andI've been told by folk that while there ain't many of them aroundBelfast, some loan wolf nut like me, sending pretend bombs to ponceymusic magazines, is just right up their alley.

- Well Ju-Ju Brush, Me and my cousinParty Time here are a little at a loss in getting together a littlescheme we got goin down. Maybe we could get another head in on tryingto devise a jumping off point for it. Why'nt you come hang out withus 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 thethree of us and went off sneaking cautiously through entries all theway back home just all so Ju-Ju Brush weren't spotted by thelaw..........

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

2011-11-19T00:19:00.001Z

Party Time, thank fuck, was able tosecure himself a crisis loan from the brew today – so this weekend we'llbe eating.

I was beginning to think that he wasgoing to eat the cat (not calling him Gore Vidal anymore) so hungrywas he. His stomach rumbled all last night, something sounding like the painedmoans 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 myspit a lot. Swallow, swallow swallow. As a child I thought I didn'tneed to work in school to get a good job cos you didn't need money,really:

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

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

- What is WRONG with you, eh? TrembledMother.

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 eatyer own feces if absolutely starving? Those chicks in 2girls 1cup didit, and them on 'specialised' pornstar wages, they wouldn't have needed toeat 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 iswhat I were turning over in my dried up, nutrient starved brain.

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

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

- Bat somethan b'yand savage eat at awnshat!

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

- Nah. Ah wall nat eat a crate-ture affthah ska.

I rolled around holding my belly andnibbling on an orange peel I found up the side of the cooker. PartyTime 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 ahsall-fone fatta aff thah frant aff has card, an mammary-rising thahscare-ity nambah an thah bach an rattin thah dan wan his gane!

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

Its Time For A Cowboy To Dream

2011-11-17T15:50:00.001Z

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

2011-11-15T12:42:00.001Z

Blowjobs are a lot like cricket:They're fun to do, but boring to watch...very boring.

As I have not bust a nut in nearly 3months I have trawled the interwebs many times over – looking underevery rock and through every cache dump for good porn that I have notalready seen. I feel much like those hard pushed trawler men,squeezed by EU regulations and despairing over the depleted stocks –they work the same land, float over the same space, and come up withthe same shit, maybe many times over.

I had to get a man out to look at mylight today as Party Time in one of his Tarzan moods jumped off thestairs from halfway up caught hold of the light and tried to swingacross the hall on it – or that's probably what he thought wouldhappen in his cave-painting-rendered mind's eye, - but what heachieved in doing in the 3d dimensions was pull the light, thefitting, and a big square of plaster board down on top of himself.Now there is a big hole in the ceiling where a bat got through lastnight. I screamed the house down when I saw it. I am afraid of thingsthat can fly. I screamed to Party Time, “Catch it! Catch it,” and he,the big mongoloid, gets his lead pellet rifle out from his sports bagand shoots after the thing, round and round and round the room incircles. I hit the deck and lil Gore Vidal, the cat, got a roundright in the foot.

When he got it at last, right throughthe middle, the thing conveniently fell straight in the empty fishtank that sits on the mantle. Party Time, with great haste, like hewere handling a bomb that were gonna go off any second, took the fishtank up and took it out the front door and threw it into the streetwith a loud smash.

- What the fuck are you doin? - went I.

- Gatling rad of dad bat. It bad luck inthah hase! - said Party Time, matter of factly.

The bastard had completely ruined myliving room. All the pictures were smashed, three of my records hadhad rounds put through em, poor lil Gore Vidal the cat had a sorefoot and the walls had god knows how many holes right the way around– so much so I got the impression temporarily I were standingINSIDE a teabag.

- Party Time! You have destroyed myhouse! And when the man comes round from housing to fix thelight you broke he is going to see the state of the place and have meturfed outta here!!

- Ah am sarah, Danny. But ah hove plan – wot wah yast tah dah back hame – after a shat-at and be-fore thah5-0 came ovah!

- Oh God in heaven help me, - Ishuddered...

I fell down into my lovely bigarmchair, trying to ignore the various yellow foam spewing wounds allover the material. I could feel, at my back, over half a dozen roundslodged in the stuffing. I nearly cried, too, when I remembered thereis this dark brown slime that has started coming up into the toilet from thedrains. Every time it happens its accompanied by this faint howling. I got a medium pal of Mother's fancy man Nirab round to investigate and she told me theplace is overrun by demons...

So I stuck this un on the turntable,cos it were the closest to hand and conveniently expressed how I werefeeling...

You Clipped My Wings Before I Learnt to Fly. Unspoiled. Unspoken. I've Outgrown That Fucking Lullaby

2011-11-12T02:11:00.001Z

Lady Gaga hasn't called back yet. Don'tthink she will.

Party Time scored for us some niceyellow coloured speed today off this jittery Polish chap who lookedlike he'd Cerebral Palsy or like a real bad series of tics the wayhis head popped off to the side or the way his frame jerked..

He picked us up in that lay-by by alongthe Lagan Towpath, before you get to Annadale Flats, which issomewhere I used to live. This little lay-by is well of the road, andI imagine at night a good spot for dogging. It were my contention toParty Time that you could rig up little cameras and mics in thefoliage area along the edge of the towpath and that you could makegood blackmail money off of it.

- Bet you'd make the King's Ransom, - Iwent.

- A fockhan fore-tune – went PartyTime. - It ash mah believe ah believe thah yah wad Gat sam Haghprofall faces at thah' rand hare?!?

- Yup... - I went.

The jittery Pole got to us just aftersundown.

He took us up through Stranmillis. Wecame up along some of these little co-eds walking along and he woundhis window down and started barking like a dog at them. They wiggledalong in their sheer leggings with their VPL laid out like fuckinveins on a smackhead's arm. I was feeling mightily embarrassed by thejittery Pole's barking. Every time his frame jerked the car lurchedover to the side. A couple of times he nearly went up onto thefootpath – the second time nearly careering right into an oldgranny carrying a bag of Satsumas.

We met his man down the Lower Ormeau.This bunch of psychedelic punksters – their hair dyed psychedelic,garish yellows and reds, - lived in the house we went into. Most ofthem spoke Eastern European languages. Fat Sandra was there with herfella. She was, like every other time I've seen her, tearing littlecorners of a roll of toilet paper and eating it.

- Hello, Fat Sandra, - I went.

- Who as thahs cant? - Inquired PartTime.

- This is Fat Sandra, - went I.

- Ah rat, - went Party Time.

The jittery Pole, who'd been summonedinto a back room when we got in the house, came back out with acrouched over old man with a white beard and long white hair, who Ireckoned was the fabled Gandalf of the L______ R___. The old wizenedcunt proceeded to try and freak me out by standing dead close to myperson and making out like he were throwing little bits of things atme. He would hold his hand up, lining it up with his eye, with histhumb and forefinger only an inch or so apart, like he held somethingdaintily within, like an object, and he would draw it back a littleand squint, like he were lining shit up, then he would go to throwthis thing at me, but really there was nothing there, but he werequite convincing in making believe there was, and trying to get me tobelieve the same. When I told him I could see the balls, that theywere the size of about Brussels Sprouts and black in colour, helaughed ruefully then ceased his shenanigans.

He give me and Part Time a good deal onthe speed he sold us.

I fucking love speed. It gives meprecision in my game of wits with Party Time. It gives me precisionalso in my recountings. It gives me precision in choosing my words.In constructing the right syntax.

Part Time's mind is like a major city'scitizens after they've been overrun by an invading army duringwartime. It is susceptible to the crudest of propaganda. Fuck's sake– I once told him the provo's had an airforce and if you were outand you heard an air raid siren you had to go seek cover under thenearest thing – cars, whatever.

One day when we were kids, some timeround Christmas when he were over for a visit, me and him went up tomy pal Bogdan's house. I'd given Bogdan reasonable forewarning of ourcoming up to his and made him privy to my Provo airforce yarn. I told him to cue up his sound effects CD in his HI-FI and to put it athis window and wait for my call. When he saw us at the bottom of hisstreet, I told him, he would play the recorded noise of an air raidsiren from the Sound Effects CD through the HI- FI at his window. Andso when the young me and the young Party Time dandered up Bogdan'sstreet that cold Christmas week afternoon we suddenly heard the noiseof an old WW2 air raid siren echoing through the place, and PartyTime dived under the nearest van griping loudly about the Irish beingthe blacks of Europe and how where he was from this was just bakers'buns, airforce squadrons flying sorties.

Later on Party Time, after huffingloadsa speed, told me about how now he'd got word that he had alittle newborn nephew back in where he's from.

This makes him very sad as he cannotreturn to his homeland and commune with his blood as he has a bountyon his head back there. He tells me this was the very beginning ofhis problems:

- Ah wash gatling dan wah sam bad cants.Bad. Ra'al Bad. Gat tah ah pint ah rhab'd thah lah-cal dealers ahfthah Christ-All ahn aftah thah they cam roun' tah mah gaff, ahn chassmah thru the 'hood. Thah stab mah in thah stomach wah blade, andshoot affar mah. Ah ram'mamber thah afternoon ah flee the homelann'.Ah wash listeening tah thash track:

- blad purring atta mah! Ah sald theChrist-All atta knockdown prace and buy a ticket tah London...!!! Tahfrahdome!!!

Fuck The #MTVEMAs

2011-11-07T02:16:00.000Z

Was in two minds today whether todander into town (one thing I haven't mentioned is that my motor'spacked in). But I did as I reckon being a man of limited means andfewer prospects I will never leave the Bellshite, nor, in mylifetime, get to see the denizens herein getting their two-tonepsyches so lavishly catered to by such a grand American extravaganza– the last big American extravaganza of its magnitude probablybeing WW2.

I thought to myself, approaching thegiant luminous blue-tit biodome of the Victoria Square ShoppingCentre, that really things were no busier – just as many feet onthe ground – as any other Saturday afternoon – but there was adifference – a difference evidenced in the deep, swirling glazed eyes of all – and I started to realise that everyconversation I were in earshot of were to do with the fucking#MTVEMAs. Old and young alike carried themselves like they were theprotagonist in some NI Tourist Board ad on 'The New EmergingBelfast'.

Clusters of impeccably togged up hipsters withwell-sculpted hairstyles mingled between Starbucks and the KitchenBar – boys and girls 18-25, 25+, - The Relevant (cos this is thedemographic where yer chances and spending power are at theiroptimum) swarming like germs and white blood cells. In amongst themall the old (anyone above aforementioned age bracket) permeated likeincorporeal wraiths faintly making their presence felt in thisdimension. I were one of these zombies. I staggered trough them allin my tracksuit/pajamas and my big yellow mac feeling like a refugeefrom some underground city come up into 'civilization'....Thehair-swishing make-believe, the poise outside bars like they imaginedthey were gonna be surreptitiously pap-ed any minute, the boys intheir shades long after the frigid sun'd gone in, the old gettinglost, being, “are we going the right way” - made me (for once)relish the sight of nearly two-dozen pigs – if only to make thespot a legitimate target for the latest Provo Tribute Act...

I went down into the belly of VictoriaSquare, down into to the subbasement car park for a quick toke. Downthere I could see right up through the crisscross of escalators,right up to the dark-tinted areola of the luminous blue-tit biodome,the capstone of this murky “shopping mecca” - and as a mecca itpossesses our unmistakeable drab Ulster piety complementing perfectlyConsumerism's universally dark architecture. I was struck by a visionthen, a memory from my own future, or possibly that of a futureincarnation, slipped from the bondage of Eternal Return that this awful place would soon house a great manynumber of citizens, corralled in here, the walkways and platforms anddeep, voluminous square stores fulfilling their true purpose, whichwas to act as a 21^st century gulag --- In my vision Iheard the groans and the occasional scream of the emasculated futurecitizen, under the yoke, body and soul, eyes leaping out, spurred bymemories of criminal spectacles more grotesque, more baneful thanwords can tell...then these screams from the future, full of dreadand suffering were replaced by the screams of the now, the present,which were full of hysteria and insane, uber-longing...

I went up the escalator gingerly,dropping down every few steps when the thing brought me too near thetop. I could make out this mass of feet running – as one – fromone side of the complex to the other – clad in identical trainers –they resembled in their kinetic mass the birds going round and roundthe Albert Bridge looking for a safe perch for the night.

Justin! Justin! - They screamed. Fromthe car park behind me I heard a screech of tyres and imagined it wasthe dulcet smile-android being spirited away by his Illuminatihandlers. It seems his pubescent, foamy-gashed fans had kenned thisfact also, and sensed his leaving the vicinity, for they swamped theescalators (the down one AND the up one) forcing me to leap into thegutter in the middle and slide back down to the bottom like Al Pacinoat the end of Carlito's Way. The harried me and knocked me as theystampeded after the limo and as they went I watched for thelegal-looking ones and give them all a good groping as they whizzedby.

Another lasting impression was theamount of twats that done themselves up to resemble the famous ones,in order I reckon for them to possibly experience the blanketadoration and attention, if only for a minute or two, before the egomosquitoes twig it isn't really the ''slab', and fuck of spitting andcursing at the trembling fame-starved cunt. For example, I saw threeLady Gagas around the place, with one of em so authentic looking shegot approached by two journo looking types and a man with a properlooking press camera. When the kids got a load of this they camerunning too, obeying the tic-tac-toe of their celebrity obsessedminds. I, too was drawn into the maelstrom, around the outside, tosee if it really was High Priestess and baby-eater Lady Gaga...butthe girl opens her mouth in response to some generic questioning fromthe journo saying:

- Wah??? - Fock Aff! Aye, I gat mahtackat here, so ah do! - and she pulled it outta her cleavage, thatelusive (figurative) golden ticket, when one of the popster's fromthe rabble's arm shoots out, snatches it off her, and this weeanorexic looking bint peels of from the screaming heads, like newbornhatchlings, and takes off down the street with it bawling in a high,helium pitched tonality befitting of her weak looking little frame.

The poor Gaga-a-like stood there, tears tripping her, till she werepushed into the wall and the hordes chased the ticket-stealer.

I remained and took a good look at LadyGaga. On closer inspection she didn't really make the cut. She'd aload of Harp beer tins as curlers in her (well) dyed peroxide mop,but she weren't skinny or short enough, her makeup was too off-whiteand her left ear was askew in the fashion of a dogeared page in abook.

Where you gonna go now, - I went.

Nowhere, by lucks ahf thangs, sobsob– she went.

Wee bitch, eh?

Yup.

I took her for coffee and she took herHarp-tin rollers out and wiped off most of her makeup. She wiped herlipstick off and rummaged around in her bag for a bit then emptied itonto the table. Amongst a load of balled up tissues, keys and arounda dozen jubes there were lots and lots of lipsticks. She took thetops off three of em – electric citrus, Kylie Minogue Pink, and BigTop Red. She considered them all for a bit then applied the electriccitrus. She looked good.

We walked through Victoria Square therest of the way and I spotted more of those studied celebrity doubles– the twat taking the prize most modeling himself on David Guetta sogood that while going along, carrying a load of records over hisshoulder, he got mobbed by a bunch of popsters looking smile-androidBieber's mobile no.. The popsters, though, on inspecting his bag ofrecords, discovered they were no more than a bunch of cardboardsquares, but not before 'Guetta' got their numbers off them promisingto 'pass them on to Justin.' I wondered how many of theseceleb-a-likes going around were the attention starved, starry-eyedcelebrity-aspiring, and how many were possessed of murkier intentions – their resemblance to the authentically famed being thebait of these toothsome 21^st century pied pipers...

I asked Lady Gaga about this. Shesaid, - Dunno about tha', Danny, but I tell you wha' – plenty ofpink ballets in the offing the next couple of days...

We reached Corn Market where a lonesomenut were loudly positing that the whole affair was nothing more thana 'mega-ritual' a simulation of 'occult blood-sacrifice' and a nod toa kabbalistic-masonic esotericism – the teachings of which belongedto them (and them alone) running the world behind the scenes ofcommon times.

- Fuckin hell, - I went.

- Realer than you know, Danny – saidLady Gaga.

- ...And dey will stage some blooddrenched bestial sex rite – they will fetishize our approachingpolice state with scantily clad centurions of the street...- Stillthe mad cunt was sporting the best Tee of the night – what took meages to source...

I took a hold of Lady Gaga, up an alleyoff Linenhall St, and frigged her till she started seeping at thehoof. She wanked me to I shot it out all over her tight tigerprintone-piece then she took my arm and we walked away, and I said,

You bunkin up with me tonight, Gaga -when a little cunt came up behind us and snatched her bag with allher jubes in it...

I'd only my own busfare left to get mehome, where I'd speed and my nice green from out west. When I toldher I was holding she jumped at the chance to come with – and onthe way back on the bus the conversation went thusly:

- I gonna get to slice you anyway, girl?- I went.

- Nope. No jubes neigh wuh that weesmick strokin' mah beag.

- Yeh, baby, but you get themorning-after pill the marra?

- That costs £30, dickhead.

- I go halfers with you?

- Nah. Don't trust you. What you go onyou? £1.70 for thuh bus? And I won't hoave the whole £30 on meneigh I ain't got out tah work the night.

- Shitman. How's about you say I rapedyou. Then you go to the cops and they'll get you a abortion for freeif my seed gets fertilized....

- She pulled this thing from her bagthen. I thought it were a TV remote control at just glancing at it, -You know what this is felchy breath? Its a tazer. You try any funnybusiness wih me the night, I'll fuckin zap ye. I'll come, smoke yergrass and huff yer speed – and what you geh out of it? Mah number.

So we went back to mine and she huffedmy speed, smoked my weed and like she said, she gimmie her number –and at some point she picked this un and put it on the turntable...

And We Die And We Live And We're Born Agian

2011-11-02T12:56:00.003Z

I headed west last night, Black Mountain direction, to collect a 1/2oz of the nicest green that's surfaced this last bit. It has been a miserable bad run in below-par-product the last 6 months – in regards marijuana anyway, and, I have to say, speed, too.

After I got the shit My Man offered me a lift back downtown. Just as we passed the Milltown Cemetery it starts lashing it down. We come up on a sharp turn where Blackstaff Rd meets Kennedy Way, before we hit the Westwood Shopping Centre, - and in that instant just before we got round the bend there's a boom then a pop then a crunch then a short tinkling of glass on asphalt, all probably simultaneous, more or less, but heard by me distinctly, in sequence, then, completely round the bend now, we come upon the immediate aftermath of a bad accident.

My Man, a good driver when it comes to responding to the sudden and unexpected, dropped gears and glided round the debris-heavy perimeter of the wreck, oh so slowly. A Mazda, hit at good impact, was right up on the curb and was in the shape of a banana. The other motor, a nice one, like a Beamer or a Merc, sat dead centre in the opposite lane from us and its bonnet was all mashed in, totally flattened. The woman behind the wheel had her face pressed right up against the windscreen, the curve where her temple meets her forehead providing a epicenter for a big cobweb of shattered glass.

I had smoked a good bit of the rocket My Man had passed me when I got in his car with him back up the mountain. Now, passing this road traffic accident victim, completely baked, I absorb it all and am giddy for reasons that are: 2 part fresh gladness at this good new source I have found and 1 part the pure THC – and in regards that last part, the sight of this woman, her head embedded in her shattered windscreen, her legs probably mincemeated by the engine coming through the pedal well - all this abstractly registering on her face to begin with; all while she blinks so slowly: It give me the impression she was still able, in some part of her mind, to will a delay in the onset of the massive pain that was to come any second. But if this was so, the only outward expression it left her with was one of great confusion.

She opened her mouth then, and My Man rolled his window down to hear the noise she made. It was a level, bass groan. Like a zombie.

My Man said, - Fuckin kids're gonna think this is a display for Halloween.

I asked him to drop me at St Mary's a little way up the road as I'd the heebie jeebies from the state of that woman's head. I walked the rest back into town listening to this number on my Walkman:

Going along Bedford Street I come up behind this trio of pencil-necked poindexters, one a redhead in a Superman getup with the foamy muscle chest top. Then this wee cunt, drunk, done up like Rambo, lurks from somewhere with a plastic (thank fuck) bowie knife and slaps the nerd up the side of the head with it then trips him. The poindexter, props to him, stayed on his feet and went on, then let himself (and witnesses rooting for him) down when he jogged on a bit put his fist in the air and made like he was going to take off while shouting something about Jor-El...Ah...and the Rambo was all:

- Fuckin state of you you wee fruit – think you look like Superman? Ah'll fuckin stick yer cape up yer hole and pull it out yer japs eye – be my fuckin Hall'een trick you'll be – faggot...

I went home and listened to the news all night, to hear if that woman had died, and fell asleep to Sailing By in my lovely armchair.

But Belfast's shit for Halloween, generally, on the costumes front, anyway.

you said it felt like when you learned to float

2011-10-19T07:28:00.001+01:00

Mother went and fucken flipped out when she saw that the nails of my left hand, which were neatly clipped and uniform, compared to those of my right, which were gnarly - and beheld a yellowed jaundiced light when they were pointed sunward - did not match up...

My clippers snapped when I done my left hand and I ain't just got round to buying some more. - I simpered. - Well let mummy cut em for you...!!! - She went.

No I say! On guard! - I went in a tone reminiscent of noblemen proposing a duel.

Now...

A Prayer
by
Daniel Pongo

Please God let me die peacefully and not incrementally like the hospital serial dramas and the gov. sponsored health ads would have you believe. Let me not be stricken with a mild/severe stroke initially, to begin with, to end up losing all motor function culminating 6months later with a surgical repository attached to every orifice.

Please God let not pointless human gunge I expel internally collect in my lower recesses to darken my posterior - and all in a futile and disgusting bodily protestation spurred by one's material certitude.

Please God let it be quick in my dreams while I lie prostate and coddled by the stasis of slumber.

Please God don't even let me jerk or spasm. Let my heart just stop and not flutter. Let me not kick out and awaken my partner; and if I sleep alone let not my vessel roll floorward to end up blocking the door.

Amen

Park The Car 20 Blocks Away And Walk To The Fight

2011-09-22T16:25:00.000+01:00

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 v.cheap 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 bastard...by the looks of it.

The Day I Brained Eddie Copeland

2011-07-14T18:52:00.001+01:00

The trouble with getting up earlier in the day is you’ve longer to wait for your favourite television shows to come on. That is what I’ve been finding, rising at 8am like I’ve been doing this last week due to the heavy heat.

Quite near my house the Future Brain Surgeons of Northern Ireland have been swarming en masse round the edges of their kingdoms chucking petrol bombs and assorted masonry at the pigs and miscellaneous opposites in neighbouring estates.

I don’t get the same high-octane adrenaline rush I used to when witnessing riots first hand or on the television.

I used to go to riot all the time back when I was a teenager. To begin with I always positioned myself in the centre of the rabble, not too close to the front to risk getting a plastic bullet in the eye or too far to the back to look yellow. I weren’t much of a thrower back in them days. Still amn’t. But the first time I picked up a bit of masonry to chuck at a pig was also my last. It were a quarter-brick with a brush of white paint up the side. It horned off three ways at the end, this brush of white paint. I never forgot it, the most memorable piece of masonry in my life. Well, I stretched my puny arm back, felt the drag in the slight weight of the quarter-brick and threw that thing for all it were worth. It gained more height than distance. For a bit I thought it were gonna fly backward. But it arched thinly when it reached its full height and fell at speed right on the noggin of former political struggler and official riot organiser: all round hardman Eddie Copeland. He fell in a crumpling way, like a sack of spuds cut at the bottom just right after all the spuds fall out. The collective knew instinctively who threw the brick. They rounded on me simultaneously, their fantastic instinct in mentally plotting the trajectory of flying masonry amalgamating in their hive mind dynamic. Then one shouted:

- It were Danny Pongo! – And I ran. Like the wind.

Up above the pigs in their chopper followed my progress over walls and through strangers’ gardens. I were chased by two rotweillers and beat with a broom by an old cunt with ‘sympathies’ for the rioters. Not once did the pigs intervene. Not once. I reckoned they were up there, those sky pigs, on the radio to their ground based colleagues giving them reports on how far I’d got. Probably up there taking bets on how far I’d get. Then, just as a stitch set in, I turned a corner and a hole in the street where a manhole cover’d been torn up provided my escape.

And there I was, Danny Pongo. Down in the sewers splashing in the shite and detritus. My sanctuary and my natural habitat.

So in the years that followed I completely never participated or was ever up there on the front lines with the rest of them. Never had to wrap my face in a heavy football scarf or sport a pair of shades to avoid identification. Just hanging back instead, an autonomous observer. Mostly I used to stand on shop roofs or shimmy up lampposts. I liked to view proceedings from a high vantage point.

They were far more inventive and resourceful in what they used to throw at the pigs back then. They had javelins, waterbombs filled with piss, used those lasers that can blind pilots and take down airplanes (haven’t seen em this year on the tele), hardened dog shit in a catapult I saw once, golf balls whacked off rooftops, fireworks fired outta pipes like ‘My First Bazooka’ (it were mainly 8 and below that were at this). One novel move they pulled this year was setting a bus on fire and driving it at the police lines. It careered straight into a police landrover injuring all five pigs inside.

I guess the word this year for them was: audacious.

The other day while out to stock up on supplies for over the 12^th I included in the shop a porno mag, as my internet’s being a cunt and I can’t watch my blue videos.

I got home and smelled the new magazine smell. It has been years since I’ve bought a blue book and smelled the ‘New Magazine Smell’, - something far removed from ‘The City Stink’ (talked about in last post).

Then I opened it and got my cock out and began playing with myself; stiffening the old ham javelin up in preparedness.

I went at it for ages, just staring at this wet red gash…and it dawned on me, how much of a resemblance a cunt has to a stab wound.

So I put the magazine away and slapped my cock like you would a bad dog’s nose.

I thought to myself: I must be very depressed. Or maybe I wank too much over blue books. Maybe I am jaded with the blue books.

Then I shimmied my thoughts on to more productive things, like how to get the smicks to stop their rioting and get some peace in the Middle East!

And I thought if I’d the money and could commandeer some pig choppers I’d strap amps to the underside of those choppers and fly over those troublesome neighbourhoods blasting this at em:

Sometimes I Can't Deny, Some Days Just Pass Me By

2011-07-04T19:36:00.001+01:00

I'm sitting writing this in the central library so's to get out of my house for the afternoon. I usually won't go out in this heat. I don't have any threads to match this weather. I've been lying out on my big faux-leather sofa this last two days in the nip playing with myself, my big fan on the coffee table going hell for leather and keeping me cool. But the fan, my only fan, has gone and packed in and the place is hotter than a nun's cunt at benediction.

I put on my cardigan, bare chested underneath, and my wranglers and went at a slow pace down to the bus stop, my head bowed in mind of the dangerous rays of the sun at my eyes.

On the way I met Mad Otis and his da. His da was rocking the 70's hippy-provo look: long, greasy rat-tail hair and and one of those green canvas army jackets with some European flag on the arm. He wore a beard, that'd obviously been dyed jet black, and smoked a cheroot.

- Was up the road gettin some lacks for mah doors, – yelled Mad Otis in my face.

The da went to speak. He spoke like a drunken retarded man. His head slumped one side to the other, like a metronome in slow motion. I noticed the plate in his head, gotten as a result of Mad Otis dropping the radiator on his noggin that time.

- Nothing against blacks, but did you hear there's an African deli on the Lower Ormeau got busted recently for havin a putrid sheep's carcass in the back and no runnin hot water? Said the da, drawling.

- Aye! - Went Mad Otis quick and impatiently like he'd been waiting weeks to speak. - Fuckin rattin Vietnamese Crows in their display cobinat an' all, Danny Pongo! Fuckin rattin bastards were smogue'lin em here taped to their legs under their big African man-skirts you see them walkin about in! Fuckin' sellin you dead crows! Crows're the same fockin world over, fuck's sake! I go into Ormeau Park with mah fuckin crossbow and skewer a few of em on mah bolts – fuckin cook you one Pongo, tell you it'll taste the same as any of the ones those African boys got down in that deli of theirs!

- Maybe you could open yer own deli, Mad Otis? Went I.

- Might be a business idea in the workings there, Mad Otis, - Went his da. - See though, there's a lotta young people, young men getting sick now, Danny. See when you eat chicken and yer sick the protein travels to yer brain and collects there and makes you sicker.

- See all the shite they put in the chicken, and all the food as a matter of fact, all the time: additives, colourings, all sortsa chemicals -

- Correct! - Went Mad Otis cutting me off, the spit flying out his mouth, - To fockin bulk it out and give the livestock more weight an' all!

- But that's not all, - went I pointing into the sky. - You see those big long streaks across the sky. And you see those whispy fingers coming away from the main body of the streak like ghostly branches? Well them's what you call chemtrails, Mad Otis. They are being sprayed outta private airplanes under the direction of a hydra-headed Luciferian New World Order that work behind the scenes of common times endevouring to control each and every little thing.

- And this is the way they get started, - went Mad Otis raising his voice. - Spray us with fockin fly spray and get us all sick and weak. Well, they won't take me Danny Pongo! They're not gonna take me!

Mad Otis's da then leaned in close to me. He was missing many teeth and his tongue was thick with brown gack. He said – Wow!

But this is only a heavily edited portion of the discourse Mad Otis and his da engaged me in. In reality it lasted exactly 32 minutes.

One bus had passed me in the course of their talking to me but I were too nervous of both of them to cut either one off and go sprinting after it. Luckily they'd cut into a good deal of my waiting time for the next one, so I wasn't waiting too long in the stinking, sticky sun.

I was amazed to discover, when I got off the bus in town, that Belfast had now well and truly entered the 21^st century by acquiring itself 'The City Stink'. I have smelt 'The City Stink' in London, Dublin and Barcelona. It fills yer nose with a cool putrescence. It is most noticeable in the shade. There is every sort of bad odor on the aromatic palette of 'The City Stink'. And now Belshite's got one too.

I saw a lotta sites walking through the heat this afternoon. There were a lot of men, tough nuts, with their soft steroid muscles bulging underneath their latest up-to-date Rangers strips. I saw them only in the middle distance pointing this way and that, up & down, and at each other, heads red and shouting, their (for the most part) shiny bald burnt red heads gleaming like cummy wet bell-ends with a dose of something or other.

I had nowhere to go – just knew I had to get outta the boiling confines of my dirty little hole.

So I dandered up to Bosco's to buy a few e's, cos it were sunny, cos its in the sun, this type of year in fact at a festival down south, that I took my first e listening to Shakedown play this number:

So when I get home I'll stick it on, bang a coupla Bosco's e's and dance round my living room to it in the nip...

Doesn't Have A Point Of View, Knows Not Where He's Going To, Isn't He A Bit Like You & Me

2011-06-30T23:44:00.001+01:00

"He always went with a jubilant spring in his step - but in his heart there swole a mushroom cloud on every horizon...and the possibility of one round every corner.
He had a car that never started anytime it rained, and he? he lived between worlds. It is lucky in a way, because the rain would depress him and make him drink. And so Mother Nature became his designated driver – raining on the car so it didn't start and preventing him from driving anywhere pissed."

There are people who ascribe some magic superstitions to cars. Like my Uncle Dudley; who in telling me this story this afternoon about the death his pal Billy Wheelbarrow in the summer of 1986 theorized that it were his car's bad luck (Billy Wheelbarrow's car's) that caused it to stall and crash on the M4 killing him instantly.

Just like everyone knew would happen the car stopped working just as a heavy summer rain began and it crashed into a bus.

Uncle Dudley said the downpour this afternoon, in an afternoon in 2011, reminded him, in its ferocity, of the rain that fell 25 years ago, in 1986, and that killed his pal Billy Wheelbarrow by stopping his car in its tracks on the motorway.

My Uncle Dudley is a great one for reminising. We get into arguments often when he reminisces as he does. Arguments over such things like: Where was The Woodstock Festival held? Uncle Dudley insists it were held on the Isle Of White...I go mental telling him it were upstate New York....sometimes my sis Micheesha tells me to let him be and let him think what he likes.

He is also a great one for the impromptu one liners.

For e.g: We pulled up in Connswater's car park the other day. Uncle Dudley spied this cocky MILF exiting her car in the parking bay beside us. She'd a wide arse and a skinny waist...

...Uncle Dudley yelled, - You love! You've an arse like a bag of spanners!

Uncle Dudley has bad nights and wakes from his sleep often. He screams out, “Leave Me Alone!” or “Fuck Off!”

Me and my sis Micheesha think he's done time and this is what he is shouting about. We think maybe he got a hard time in the clink and these are the terrible episodes he revisits every night in his nightmares.

But he takes me on runs up into the country. He races cross country over into Donegal. We appreciated the mountain ranges out there and take pictures, fucking with the perspective --- like I squat in the foreground, with some mountain in the background, lining it up so's it looks like I'm sitting with the pointy bit at the top of the mountain sticking up my hole.

Uncle Dudley loves this type of humour and loves it when the conversation turns blue.

Every time on the way home we end up buying cheap feags* and always, somewhere on the road, he gives me this micro-lecture about marriage, or rather about why you should never get married:

- Why make one woman miserable when you can bring pleasure to so many?

- Yeh, Uncle Dudley...Yeh!

Then he puts some Beatles in his cassette deck. And usually he plays this un, cos its his favourite:

*feags - cigarettes

What Would I Say If She Asks What's New? "Nothing What's With You? Nothing Much To Do"

2011-06-27T23:14:00.001+01:00

Just like a fucking dick I went and blew all that money I'd swindled off oul Granny in the Old Folks' Home buying up cocaine and Russian Standard vodka. So there would be no date with Deidre for the foreseeable, unless, that is, she were partial to McDonald's, cos that's as far as my coinage would stretch.

Also, due to these frugal shortcomings, I have left myself short – again!

I had all but a fiver to my name but still decided to take the bus into town so's to save my legs. Another reason for doing this was because the last time I were standing at my local stop a woman got off and gimmie her all-day ticket. This happened twice. Twice in a row. At this I felt very blessed. So much so that a kind of idolatry took hold, a holyman's convince-ment that this would happen a third time – and ascribed to this believe the classical holy trinity.

But it did not happen. And I had to pay the fucking larcenous £1.70 to take a ride over 2.5miles, if that. Fuck you Translink Metro buses. I didn't even find change on yer seats or under em – not down the aisle nor stuck down the connects in the long back seat – and I only got on yer fucking rolling extortion wagon so that this might happen....Though, I have to say, when the kind lady didn't step off the bus that third time today to offer me her (free) all-day ticket, I felt my heart sink, knowing a treasure trove of silver & shrapnel did not await, knowing it intuitively – for the magic trinity had been prematurely snuffed.

I dandered through town. Starving I was. I used this whirring hunger to hone my survival acumen, imagining it as one of those spinning, sparking wheels people use to sharpen swords on. I went past a stall with a man selling counterfeit Ben10 shite. He were shouting, - Five lighters for a poun'! - and I remembered back to when I were younger when mother led me by the hand round town round “all the shaps! Lookin for a bargain!” and I used to hear these men shouting “Five lighters for a poun'!” and I remember there was a WAY they shouted it, it weren't so much like they were making an offer, more like they were boasting about it. I remember thinking:

These men have all just landed themselves a bargain; a bargain of a lifetime by the sounds of it. They have been waiting out the back of some warehouse, some lighter warehouse, and they all, to a man, have been gifted 5 lighters for a pound. And now they are standing in the middle of the street shouting about it, like a William Blake lunatic loudly describing his visions or a newly converted religious fanatic pledging his devotion to some extraterrestrial hundred-eyed deity. Some even set up a stall to show off how many they'd bought...

...And then I had a brainwave walking along: You could buy up a loada those all-day tickets – photoshop the dates (which is how the drivers know you purchased them that day) print em out, scrunch em up a bit to get them authentic, then sell em on for a 1/3^rd of the price...

So I dandered back home, back to my 'work station' to map out my plan.

My feelings were happy and my mind empty as I went back up my street. I started getting a hard-on imagining all the fresh fanny I'd get to slice after I got rich off my new idea. But in the ennui of my mental triumph I once again experienced a dark bleed-in of all the guilt I felt at swindling Imaginary Granny in the Old Folks' Home. It were a guilt exacerbated by the cocaine comedown that no amount of grass (bought for the purposes of mental comedown buffer) could shield me from.

But then, ahead of me, I saw Mrs Mulberry struggling along with her shopping. The beginnings of my penitence hand delivered! So I jogged along, took the old duck's bags with a smile and carried them all the way to her dining room table. And I didn't nick a thing. Sat and had a cup of tea with her as a matter of fact.

She asked me what I were doing with my life and I told her that it didn't matter what, in the here and now, but it WAS important that I felt it were gonna change...someday...only into what I couldn't tell right now...in this moment in time.

Good Things Turn Bad But Its Over Now, So Don't Look Sad Cos You're Older Now

2011-06-26T00:56:00.003+01:00

She passed me this afternoon in the street while I waited for a bus at the bus stop.

In the wake of her passing there is this feminine waft left lingering, eddying gently in aromatic swirls invisible to the naked eye – but - I could smell in it the peachiest scent, and, mixed with that, the universal musk of a woman just off the blob and ready to mate.

It were only when she passed did I pay any notice of her. This smell of her's led my senses in a lusty and fidgety imagined pursuit, like it were a pornographic Pied Piper and my nose an erotically curious tween.

I watched her arse shift, roll and swing in the summery shirt dress she were wearing loosely. I imagined placing hands on those sweet, round arse cheeks of her's, squeezing so's to check that they made nice soft cushions for my lips to plant themselves on in wet, pink kisses.

I wondered what her name was, then from behind me I noticed the mad hard footfall of a running child, and then a child came running past me. It were a girl.

- Deidre, Deidre, - she shouted, - Mummy said 'Get Milk!' - And my question were answered.

Then the bus I were waiting for came and I got on it.

The point of my excursion out today was to obtain legal tender by means fair or foul.

I went and stood in Fountain Lane, in a doorway with a baseball cap before me. I sang the first two lines of the chorus of Beyonce/Sasha Fierce's recent hit 'Sweet Dreams'

“(turn the lights on) Sweet Dream or a Beautiful Nightmare/Either way, I don't wanna wake up from you (turn the lights on)”

I screamed this out, over and over again like a loud turned up CD that were jumping. I didn't know any of how the rest of the track went. I had had it stuck in my head all day and so went in for a bit of impromptu busking, as I thought: Why not?

Suffice to say not much coinage came my way. One oul fucker with two gimpy legs, like God'd attached them back to front, even had the temerity to come over and say,

- Here! Yer destined for the nuthouse, you!

- Away and die, - I went.

So it ended up I got a brainwave and got on a bus out to the sticks.

My brainwave went thusly: Out in the sticks, usually far back down some lane and sandwiched between very respectable and well kept detached houses you will find, without a hassle, an Old Peoples' Hospice/Nursing Home. I would enter the first one of these I found and go to the old person's room nearest the exit. It was also imperative that the elderly person's room were on the ground floor as well (lest a relative disturb me or the oldie raises a fuss. Both cases I've to go out the window). I would pull my hat down over my face in case of CCTV.

And this is what I did:

I found an old people's home out somewhere, - where I won't say. I entered it through the main entrance at the side and located the closest old person's room, which was approximately 15 foot down a hall, which was located to my immediate left as I went in.

I knocked and entered the room. An old lady, whose loose-skinned and wrinkly face resembled a bootprint in the mud, looked from the carpet and smiled at me.

- Hello, granny! - I went.

- Hello, Fanny! How are you this fine summer's afternoon?

- Not so bad, granny. I have been worse. But I doubt you've been?!

- Oh. You are a cad, Maurice!

- That's what fame's me!

- Yes, sir!

We spent the rest of the afternoon discussing her duties as a WREN during WW2. I told he a story about how I got a job on a trawler off the Donegal Coast, but got fired after the first day after I got seasick and demanded they turn back and let me off. - I told them, - I told the old doll, - that if they didn't I'd throw myself overboard!

All lies.

- What an adventurer you are, Pervis.

- Yes, granny, but not a very brave one. Maybe a very queasy one. Why they had me gutting the fish right there on the deck. That combined with the smell of the gasoline in their gasoline engine had me nearly losing my dinner, granny!

- ...Oh, yes. You're a great one for the adventures. Me? I've never had any adventures. Never lived in 'interesting times'.

- Oh! Come granny! You did your bit in WW2! Saw 9/11...and what an extravaganza that was, bigger than the world's ever seen. Some will look back on this period, your period granny, as the moment the wave broke and an endless spectrum of beautiful, strange energies and ideas spread across the landscape of the human psyche. And this is occurring in the twilight of your years granny...the apex of your dotage...you are here to bear witness!

Granny sat staring at me for a long time. She then said: - I'm not well up on all the drugs you young people are on nowadays.

- Well as a matter of fact, that's why I'm here for, Granny. It seems to me you are on a lotta drugs to keep you well, but we're all on a lotta drugs now, granny. There's a lot of us need a lotta drugs to keep us well. Some in the body and some in the mind. The thing is granny, a man of my age still has to pay for his drugs, but the communists stole my money from me this morning -

- Oh those communists. They are a bad lot.

- Yes. They sent out their paramilitary forces, in the guise of the IRA -

- Another shower -

- Sent them out and they stole my money...now, granny, you always told me that if I came up short, or if the communists stole my money you would help me out. I see your bag down there under your chair. I am going to take some money from it. Then I'll be on my way.

- You do that, my boy. I know what kind of scoundrels those communists are, and their IRA would make Belsan look like Butlins!

- That's correct, granny, - I went as I rifled through her purse, my vision blurry from the guilt.

My entire haul was £82.75 in notes, pound coins and shrapnel.

I decided to walk home, entertaining the thought in my mind while I went of using some of the cash to take Deidre out on a date.

But it was only a airy teenage fantasy.

You Men Eat Yer Dinner, Eat Yer Pork & Beans. I Eat More Chicken Any Man Ever Seen

2011-06-20T01:02:00.000+01:00

It were lucky I ran into Dirty Jude this afternoon cos my ballsack was ready for bursting.

I saw her standing two places ahead of me at the local petrol station. She had in her basket a box of Malteasers and a pair of new silk tights. She still looked fine did Dirty Jude. Pushing 60 I'm sure, but you could shave a good few years off her figure on account of her having no kids, ergo she could pass for late 40s no worries.

I snuck my way up behind her and stuck my hand between her legs. She jumped with a Monroe twitter and gimmie a big smile when she saw it were yours truly, Danny Pongo.

- Hiya, Danny. Long time no see, chick. What you been at? And how's that moonbat ma of your's?

- I'm still duckin & divin, you know me, Dirty Jude. And my mother, she's got herself involved with some holy hollers that pedal their madness down in Cornmarket.

- Yer ma's a headcase. You wanna come for a drink with me, hot stuff? Talk over all our yesterdays?

- Lead the way, Vaseline Sheila -

- Oh fuck me! Haven't been called that in a while!

She took me to The Point on the Upper Newtownards Road, which is where she's from. She ordered a big jug of Sex On The Beach and two straws. We sat, most of the afternoon, perched over that one and 3 more after, noses nearly touching, talking about our very passionate sexual affair when I was all of Sweet 16.

- Guess we've yer ma to thank for introducing us. I remember the first time I met her, at that PTA meeting she brought you to. You were only around 9 or 10. I was the principal's secretary, and he'd me there taking notes. I remember after yer ma comin up to me cos we were wearing the same top...she said 'Yer wearin the same top as me. Go home or take it off', and I shot back, ' Go home yerself, and take that wee boy with you. Having him out at this time of night. No da and very little ma I think,' I said to her looking down at you.

- I remember that, Dirty Jude. I remember looking up at you. You had black fishnet stockings on. I could see right up your skirt.

- That's right. I remember you telling me that when we started dating. Called them my lucky stockings after that.

- I remember that like it were five minutes ago. You'd legs like Bo Derek and a do like Bonnie Tyler. I wanted to climb up those fishnets and crawl inside yer womb.

- Ahh haha! You were a dirty wee fucker even at that age, then?

- Always, Dirty Jude. Never keep a good dick down.

- Then yer ma invited me round for a game of Buckaroo that Christmas. There you were, ripped, with yer undercut, wearing a Nirvana T-Shirt. You were dick on a stick, hon.

- Yeah, sweetheart -

- And you knew it.

- Yeh...

- I turned 41 that following January.

- We were both on the crest of our sexual peak, cos I turned 17 one month later -

- That's right sweetpea! February 14^th...Not since Jesus bein born on Christmas Day did a person so suit a date of birth!

When we both ran outta dough we decamped to her house. We weren't even in the door before I had her on her back on the stairs, her soggy gusset round her ankles, me up & down like a piston, arse in the air, knees in the carpet, fucked her fast deep and hard, reckoned my dick coulda knocked holes through walls, the horny fast violence of every single stroke.

Afterward found us on her hammock in her conservatory. I brought up her penchant for role playing back then...

- Remember we fucked for a solid two days, and I was all like: 'I'm bored of just coming and coming and having these boring man-orgasms. I wish I knew what you felt every time you came, -

- And I told you I could make you know what that felt like.

- You educated me in how the male g-spot was located up the arse.

- You were like a jittery virgin to begin with.

- Yeh.

- So I spiced up proceedings. Suggested we play a little dress-up...

- You put me in yer babydoll and suspenders, -

- And I got my da's old dance hall threads from outta the roofspace.

- Hat and all with the feather in the brim.

- You were fucked off yer face that night.

- Yer uncle brought us some nice weed over.

- That's right...and you were lying on my big bed smokin a rocket and I came in the room wearin' me da's exotic dance hall threads, packin my big black latex strap-on, -

- And you were all like, 'Where's my money bitch?'

- And you were all, 'I don't have it, daddy!'

- And I said, 'Well you know what happens when bitches don't bring me my scratch?!'

- I said, 'You rape 'em wise?'

- That's right, stud...and I took my suit off, climbed in beside you, pulled yer babydoll up and peeled yer thong off, round yer nice round arse, Danny, -

- Slid that big black dong up there, -

- Don't forget, spat on me hand and rubbed it all round yer hole for lube, -

- Then slid it up there,-

- Fucked you nice and smooth, -

- I called you daddy, -

- And I was all, 'You gonna come bitch, you gonna come...'

- And fuck did I come. Most dick climaxes are over in the blink of an eye...seriously...just like that. I come in a woman and she's shaking and moaning long, long after I am...

- But I learnt you how to come like a woman that night, Danny...

- That you did, Dirty Jude...That you did...

I started stiffening up again. She slipped her thong off and I stuck my finger and thumb up her hole.

Still my Back Door Man, lover...

- “The men don't know; but the little girls understand.”

Dirty Jude did that Monroe twitter again, then yielded sweetly...

...In The Dark Your Hair's Just As Red, And This Long Dark Cave Will Always Be Our Wedding Bed

2011-06-19T02:09:00.000+01:00

Today my face began to flake off in a scaly reptilian fashion, uncovering by slight, incremental degrees a red raw tissue underneath.

I became very worried by this. I put it down to semi alcoholism and dodgy amphetamines. Kidneys long ago packed in and a liver that hurts like fuck unless I sit a certain way.

A while after noticing this I stood admiring myself in my bathroom mirror for the longest time. Smoothed out my decolletage and tensed my abs. I turned and stood side on, inspecting my arse and my posture. Then I went out.

I found myself on North Street walking along breathing in the heavy, charged pre-rain air and smiling at the vexed and impatient faces of the people shuffling past, hurrying to bus stops or taxi ranks in order to get in before the downpour.

I passed a hairdressers someway along, coming to near the end of the street, where I found my old chum from high school Pink Eye sitting in a shop doorway busking by strumming a ukulele.

To begin with he greeted me with a profound expression of incredulous misidentification when I insisted it were I, Danny Pongo. He could not believe the short, shy beanpole he used to go to school with had expanded into squat and gregarious little roly-poly me.

He packed up his ukelele and took me round to the Deer's Head for a drink. Over our first he told me how after he got expelled for selling blow to first years (he were 15, in 4^th year at the time) his da got him working pro bono on the bin rounds across Belfast, in a type of recompense for his bold behaviour in school.

So he pulled his socks up, straightened out and got on with it.

After he turned 18 he got paid the regular wage, just like rest of them on the rounds. Then he were promoted to the street sweeper van. And by then kids with the wife he had, and the one kid with the wife he'd left, had come about in the course of living. Add into the mix a regular and heavy gambling habit and poor old Pink Eye, always, at months' end, without fail, would always come up a little short in the cash flow department.

So he came up with a money making scheme that saw him taking the street sweeper van around independent taxi firms every evening at the end of his shift with the offer of cheap petrol. The cabbies took him up on it and Pink Eye got a roaring trade going siphoning what juice was left in the tank after his shift and selling it on.

Then the nosey parkers, as they do, got involved. Started 'making enquiries' and Pink Eye's shenanigans got investigated by head office. It didn't take them long to catch him in the act, and not even his father, who'd put in 30+ years collecting bins, could grant him any clemency.

So Pink Eye were on the street, hustling, but very green round the gills. He took up with this woman (who worked in the hairdressers he were busking outside of today) and had a brief but passionate tryst with her. So passionate that in the space of a week or two he'd wooed himself into her house and ended up living there for not a short while. Then she took a liking for another fella, a boy that come in to get his hair cut with her at the hairdressers (who would request she did it, specifically) and Pink Eye was out on his arse again, twice in 6 months.

But he had, in the short time he'd been with her, become infatuated with the girl. He took to writing her simple little ballads and playing them on the ukulele outside the hairdressers. She tried to get a restraining order out on him, but Pink Eye did some law book swotting and found that he was well within his rights to busk in the vicinity of her hairdressers.

Which is what he did every afternoon.

My heart was warmed by this tale, and a tear swelled in the corner of my eye. I got embarrassed and excused myself from the table. Went and put this un on the jukebox:

I'm Standing In The Wind But I Never Wave Bye-Bye...But I Try

2011-06-17T23:21:00.000+01:00

Mother got in very late the other night. She had this freak Nirab, leader of the big shot Christian sect, with her.

- Just away to the little girls' room, - went mother, me cringing.

Nirab came over and plonked himself down on the arm of the chair I was sitting in.

- Yer ma's hot stuff, - he went.
- Don't be getting any ideas. Anyway, I thought you were a man of God? Didn't think you lot went in for sins of the flesh?
- We've all our temptations and shortfalls, Danny. Especially us ones that're drawn to the divine...ha! That's a good one isn't it? I think I'll use it on yer mother, hey? What do you think...'Mildred...years I have sought the Divine, but I'm never closer to it that when I am by your side.'...What you think, Danny? - He went, licking his chops.
- I think you better get out before I tell my mother the sort of man you really are!
- Don't be darft! Your mother knows the sort of man I am. She wouldn't be after me if she didn't.
- I know your sort...Jim Jones, Charley Manson, Jesus...fuckin do a few parlour tricks and say yer the Son Of Man and you get to snake any girl that crosses yer path!

I was getting red in the face.

Mother reentered the room.

- What you yelling at Nirab for, Danny? - Whimpered mother.
- He's a fuckin pervert, - I went.
- I know. And ain't it grand?! He's sexually very adventurous!
- You ever seen a woman squirt before, Danny? - Went Nirab, his rheumy right eye red and glinting.
- Yeah, master of it, - I went.
- Yer ma doesn't leave much to be desired you know, in the bedroom. See that tattoo she got on her ankle.
- Oh yes this lovely dolphin on my ankle, - went mother cooing. - That fucking witch Sam Cameron stole that one on me.
- Well I have a theory, - went Nirab rubbing his chin, faux academical like. - I have a theory that women with tattoos take it up the hole...

I got up and went to the front door.

- Mother, I'm going. I got what I came here to get and I'm leaving.
- Thought ye'd like to join us? - went Nirab.
- Fuck off, Jonestown!

At this mother threw her head back and laughed like a loon. - Go get the lube and the shitewipe, woman, - went Nirab, loud enough for me to hear.

On the way down mother's drive I keyed Nirab's car and broke a windscreen wiper off.

I prayed that on his way home, driving up the motorway, it would start pouring and having no wipers to clear his window to see where he was going and nowhere to stop he'd plough headfirst into the back of an articulated lorry at not an inconsiderable speed and die instantly.

I sat listening to records at home and dropped the last of the acid I'd creamed off the Jewish Hippies.

I reflected on mother's infatuation with Nirab, putting this one on to colour my surmisings:

So What's The Girl To Do? Who Sits On The Couch And She's Feeling Blue

2011-06-11T21:28:00.003+01:00

Sometimes I'll cough so hard so's to bring up a big bit of brown gack from the back of my throat threatening to make me boke my ring up just by the sight of it alone.

Earlier I found a bit of foul chicken in the back of the fridge and give it a good sniff, something which's one of my hobbies, sniffing rotten things (I also like to stare at rotten things too: like dead pigeons that've been run over by a truck and burst their innards out all over the road -- like odd shaped and/or coloured dog shite).

It was a very foul smelling chicken breast that'd gone green and sprouted little white polyps. The smell shot through my olfactory canals and I peeled off in circles round and round my rustic kitchen as dry bokes jackknifed my body while my arms flailed wildly in autonomous grasping desperation, trying to find any ledge to hang off. I grabbed the back of my one kitchen chair (smashed the other one to bits after Kimba left me) and led it on a merry waltz around the table looking to find a place to put it down that didn't have slimy, slidey shite underneath.

When I was still I hung from the back of the chair my arms outstretched and coughing violently. After the coughing fit I opened my eyes and stared intently at the black and white checkerboard lino. Then, all around, from the outside creeping in to the centre, my vision had been invaded by silver worms of white light that seemed to have slid through the cracks in the ether and appeared on my kitchen floor.

I squinted in great confusion at this. Blinked hard twice like a heavy lidded be-witched Disney character till they disappeared.

I decided to go round to my mother's as she had cupboardfuls or Pure Orange. As I was under the impression I were having a bad trip, I reckoned the vitamin C would bring me down. Mother also had some milk-o-magnesia which I'd have for my bad stomach. She likes to spoon it to me when I am feeling poorly, even now, at this age, but I let her, cos otherwise she will not give it to me and I will have to go and buy some at a chemist.

I arrive at mother's, but she is not in. I wait a bit while I drink lots of orange with crushed up ice in it and feel better, less prone to hallucinating. I wait a little bit longer then go and check under her bed for her Bible. Her Bible is not there, meaning only one thing: she will not be back for a while as she is down town at Corn Market preaching for these bunch of big deal holy rollers, but ulterior-ly cos she's her eye on their leader, Nirab.

I accompanied her once to stand with her and this weird posse of God Botherers handing out depressing leaflets about the End Of The World and the Anti-Christ. By us at another sadness-stall (as I came to call them) was this other lot who were Pro-Lifers. They had big blow up shots of late term aborted fetuses pasted onto boards and lined up along the edge of their table. An old doll came over and put her foot through one. I laughed and went off to buy a Big Mac and on the way back one of them came up to me holding out one of their aborted fetus boards and I yell: - I'm fuckin eatin' a Big Mac. What you doin? C'mon! Play the game! - And she went, - Pepsi get their flavour from aborted fetus cells! - To which I yelled back, - McDonalds! - putting on like a full-spastic and waving my Big Mac wrapper at her, when she went, - ASSOCIATION!

I smeared the half ate Big Mac on the Pro-Lifer's fetus board and boked on her back when she turned to call for reinforcements. The crazy bitches chased me halfway up Ann Street till I started shouting, - Suicide Bombers! Suicide Bombers! - and they backed off.

So I sat reminising about this and getting blue, bluer still when I thought I saw the ghost of Boke the Cat.

Then I put this one in ma's cassette player cos it suited the mood:

Can You Find Me Sanctuary

2011-06-09T20:55:00.000+01:00

I was walking up my street early this evening having been down the The Village on the Donegal Road all day buying some acid I were fencing to this cabal of Jewish Hippies that'd come up to Belfast for the day from Tallaght, Dublin.

So I were walking back up my street and this trio of spidelings (i.e. spides/smicks under the age of 10 and a half) were playing in the street, stomping a guinea pig to death, when one of them sticks his nose in the air, this wee Golem lookin fuckin one, and turns and sees me coming, and shoots the evil eye at me while tapping away at his buddy on the shoulder for him to look and see me coming, too.

So they're all, the three of them, alert to my coming, like they'd been waiting for me. They get up off the ground, stop stomping that guinea pig to death, and run over and sit down on the footpath against my front wall. And they begin: harmonising like the Beach Boys, wretched as a Greek Chorus:

- Here, here, c'mon and lick my ballsack, lick my ballsack, lick my ballsack, won't ye please? Here, here, c'mon and hire my Cossack, hire my Cossack, hire my Cossack, they almost work for free!!!

On and on they sang, their crystal annunciations pouring from the faces of choirboys.

Then when I went to go up my path one of em gets up and gets in my way. I try and step round him but he blocks me.

- Here! My mate says ye licked his ballsock? Tha' true?
- Wouldn't lick his ma's gash. Don' like fish, me.
- Hear wha' he's sayin'? - Says the little cunt to his mates. - He's gonna go home and tell his da you licked his ballsock. His da's gonna come roun' here and fuckin' knack you out!
- Well, he knows where I live. Tell him I'll be in all night. And I'll be waiting for him.
- Big talk, Comanche. But he'll fuckin tear ye a new one, -
- Good. I've been meaning to renew mine anyway. So tell him I'll pay him if he likes. Now, for the meantime, get the fuck outta my road!

The child went white and stepped off.

Then I went into my house and dropped some acid.

Then I stuck on the turntable...:

Vicky's Got Her Story About The Mirror And The Cane

2011-06-08T01:10:00.003+01:00

A rainy, rainy, rainy day. Never knew so much water could exist in one place as all the water that poured from the heavens this afternoon.

I ran into an old flame today from back when I used to live in a homeless hostel on the Ormeau Road.

She called herself Cuntrash Cloud-Hopper back in them days but now went by her real name of Jemima, now she'd grown up.

Back then the girl was hot to trot, a real cream-yer-cacks merchant, and it was a lucky fella, we all thought, who would slice her first.

The reason for the luckiness of the cunt that popped Jemima's hostel-cherry was that this cunt, like every other cunt in the place, was probably carrying the clap or some other cringey STD. Ergo the first cunt that got to slice her would probably load her with something half deadly or give her a bushful of fucking lice, fucking sex maggots (got em more often than I can count on me fingers and toes) and after that, yer just gonna have to take yer chances when yer bucking her. Maybe put a sock on as a extra strength prophylactic instead of yer usual jube. And what's the point in that, even with a fox like Cuntrash Cloud-Hopper aka Jemima? May as well wank into yer soup, fuck's sake.

Back then me and Jemima used to move from house to house between favours owed, soft touches and people we knew well who give out. But shit with me and her was always straight up, everything surface level on a platonic scale, and we were all the better for it. She shared secrets with me that 'that cunt', the one who sliced first slices last, that one, secrets that he'd never even have got wind of.

Some of the stuff she revealed were so disgusting I wished often that it were me bucking her and 'that cunt' doing all the listening. But as it was I just listened. I used to like holding her when she started bawling. I closed my eyes and got my way into thinking she were experiencing a full body orgasm in my arms.

Yeh, Jemima were a hotty, a strange and mystic fox who was always second guessing me in intricate games of wits.

I was just so lucky I was going through a stage in my life when I was dining out on an exclusively homosexual basis. Some time not long after meeting Jemima I got myself a room in a house on University Avenue, where I got to turning tricks for oldmen Freemasons to make ends meet.

It all started one morning with my fat landlord and me tottering in the living room screaming blue murder and fighting the bit out over a quibble with the bill. The rotten old Jabba The Cunt, a man who when he spoke sounded like he were in the throes of heavy salivation, stuck his hand down my trackie bottoms and gripped my plums gently.

- What you say, Mr Pongo? - He went up in my face his breath smelling like he'd wiped a dogs arse with his tongue.
- I say you let me live here rent free I see what I can do fer you.
- On a regular basis?
- Yeh, bub. On a regular basis.

What the Fat Landlord had failed to mention was that this regular homosexual pleasuring did not start and end with him. Soon Freemasons from his lodge were impatiently inquiring after the flexibility of my rapid wanking wrist and the plumpness of my life-raft fat blowjob lips.

One fucking nutjob, who claimed to be from the Lodge on the Park Road, opposite Ormeau Park, Lodge No. 641, claimed his lot, The St Helens Masonic Lodge, mutilated babies and dismembered them and threw their ripped off limbs round themselves just like they were the finest (and latest) silk and lace accessories.

He also claimed, while climaxing in my face one cold December afternoon, that some type of seer from fore-mentioned Lodge was responsible (as was Lodge as a whole) for the killing that poor child Brian McDermott.

I had heard, subsequent to that, that it were some pornographer from the Red Hand Commando who ran a sweet shop on the Ravenhill Road killed the boy. But maybe they were one and the same, the seer and the pornographer?

More later, when I make rearrangements in the remembering dept.

There Once Was A Poodle Who Thought He Was A Cowboy...

2011-06-07T00:52:00.001+01:00

I do so fucking hate getting a wash. It was though, unfortunately, a complete necessity today as after getting my haircut a load of wee jaggies had gone down my back causing a frantic blur of itching on the bus on the way home. To others on the bus (delivering odd and morbidly enquiring looks) it must’ve looked like I were suffering from some sort of mental illness that manifested in extreme histrionics mostly.

So I was glad to get back into the house, and once settled the jaggies didn’t cause half as much annoyance as when I was out, walking around. So I procrastinated and procrastinated for two and half hours altogether. I watched The Searchers twice and had a wank over John Wayne, something I always end up doing when I watch one of his flicks two times in a row.

Then after smoking my 7^th rollie and loudly sighing at my lack of brainpower in conjuring another diversion to keep me from the bath, I roused myself to get up when my telephone rings.

It was my mother.

- It is your mother calling, - she says with her clipped accent.

- I know it is. Your name came up. I have you listed as ‘mum’.

- Comfortable. Good. Well, I need you to come round. I broke my hand trying to swat a fly.

- How in the name of fuck did you do that?

- Not my whole hand, mind you, just my pointing finger and my fingering finger –

- Ah! No! Don’t…! Don’t use rhetoric like that with me!

- Why not? Its natural.

- No it is not! Not natural. Talking to me, using those descriptions, it’s akin to incest!

- Ahh! Get away to hell!

- Tell me, how’d you do that trying to swat a fly?

- I was chasing the thing round the kitchen all afternoon when it landed on your cousin Donatello’s face, forehead to be precise about it, as he sat on the floor doing a Thunderbirds jigsaw. And I smacked it flat as a pancake with the palm of my hand. But poor Donatello thought I was giving him a smack for no good reason, and grabbed my fingers and squeezed till he broke them. Strong as oxen are those ones with Down’s Syndrome.

- Yes, - I went.

- But that’s not all. Donatello went screaming out of the house like a Loony Toon with a mashed up fly all over his bake. So I’ve sent your sister Micheesha and Stupid Peter out to find him. I want you to come over here and make my dinner for me. I can’t do nathin with two broken fingers.

- Right.

- And bring me some bourbon.

- Will do.

So I went over with her bourbon and made her Birdseye burgers, which I quartered and served to her on crackers with cheese melted on. She loves this and it is all she eats.

Later we stood by the big kitchen window birdwatching. She let me drink a bourbon, too. I put this track on her cassette player to keep the mood of he moment going.

How To Eliminate All Human Error

2011-06-06T18:08:00.000+01:00

This afternoon I decided to take a walk up the road to get a new haircut.

The barber himself, the best cutter I’ve been at and who I go to often, has an enjoyable habit of letting all the hair he cuts collect around each seat. He also has a habit of going between 2 (sometimes 3) men doing a little bit on each, kicking the hair, ankle deep by afternoon time, this way and that like he were moving through a field of fresh, cottony snow.

This afternoon I sat and watched as the salt & pepper hair of the old man in the seat jumped away from his head in a blur of barber’s scissors and glided toward the floor, spiralling with slow grace like autumn leaves.

On the cute little dark tone wood coffee table, upon which sat men’s muscle magazines and the tabloids, I found a strange little self-published book entitled ‘How To Eliminate All Human Error’.

I flicked through it and read the lengthy introduction, charting the author’s life, focusing particularly on the teenage years when he found himself 2 fights away from becoming the All Ireland flyweight champion. It was during this time, while bearing the rigid discipline required of a successful slugger, that the author made a discovery borne of such a life. He saw that a boxer must have two brains (I thought reading it: probably due to the fact that you’ll need a spare in the trunk after all the damage the primary one takes). That he must prime each one for defensive and offensive moves. Out of this duality of mind power the man discovered ‘How To Eliminate All Human Error’.

The rest of the book discussed how this was possible. Garbled and obscure language was the staple of every other sentence. Bullet points ran on for pages and pages, often repeating themselves outright or making the same point with different wording…

I was at a loss. The last quarter of the book illustrated its points using Bible quotations. These were, in relation, much easier to understand, but where at their heart just generic ideological notions, like: Eat Only Vegan, or, Always Pull The Thorn From The Lion’s Paw.

I felt the quality of the paper and greased up the laminate cover with my sweaty thumbprints.

Then it was my turn for the barber’s chair. I took a pen outta my pocket and where it said Eat Only Vegan I added an ‘s’

Eat Only Vegans

What's It Like To Be A Loon? I Liken It To A Baloon

2011-06-01T20:54:00.000+01:00

Today I got in my motor and took a run up into the country.

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.

Have Some Courtesy, Have Some Sympathy, And Some Taste

2011-05-31T23:17:00.003+01:00

Today found me standing on the corner of Donegal Sq South and Bedford Street looking up into the air. I stood there, perched on the edge of the footpath, assuming a static stubbornness to the tut-tut's of townie ignoramuses rushing by me and against me like a painiced stream round a smooth rock. Up above, in the sky, a plane spewed heavy metals and other assorted poisons upon us all in the form of chemtrails. This plane, one of a fleet of deathbringers sponsored by our Gifted and Malevolent Controllers, I could see through my Batman Telescope (which I carry with me everywhere now). It was painted with much the same material, the blacky silver, the same as the helicopter, and like it, was unmarked.

I cursed my luck at not having some kinda scientifical gidgerie-ma-do that might take a reading of what the air around us is made up with (as these type of machines do exist), but I didn't, so I turned abruptly, body popping round a fattie and a sharp edged skinnie (men) and went off to buy a cheap drink somewhere, the location of which I would determine using the Dice Man theory, and all with the help of my new fangled wooden dice that I found in a skip on my dander into town.

After tossing the thing about inside my pocket 3 consecutive times and finding it came up 6 each go, I pulled it out and saw it said 6 on every face. I was mightily disappointed by this and cursed the fate that brought me a 6 sided dice with 6 on every side. So I decided to just walk along and listen out for someone saying the name of a bar. This bar I would go to. Didn't take long.

And I went to Lavery's.

Outside I sat with my gin and tonic and rolled a fly wee one-skinner rocket (or SCUD more correctly, in a proportional sense) and sat sipping and puffing, little bits at a time to stretch it out, when a man in a suit sits by me.

This man's name was Tandy.

Tandy's drunk. He's just after quitting his job, and was on his way round to the estate agents to put his house on the market before he decided to call in for a drink to calm his nerves.

He begins to talk to me:

- I came home last week. This day last week... - he says. He has a lovely drinkers' voice, words rolled out like squidgy black hash pronounced in gravelly level inflections, though his diction's no the worse off for it, - ...So I come home last week, and there's my wife on the stairs getting fucked by the milkman.
- That's terrible, - say I.
- Worse than that. The milkman's also my brother.
- Ahh! That's a sick arrangement, there!
- Too right, mate. Too right. Why, me and Sylvia, we'd holiday, Italy, Venice, Vegas. Ha! Every time we'd book a room no higher than the 2^nd floor. Sylvia reckoned one or the both of us might go over the balcony and break our necks if we were any higher up. We liked to drink, us. Holidays the most. Glug, glug glug. Fuck, when we went to Turkey we didn't leave the hotel once for all the screwing and drinking we did...

Tandy was a very handsome man of around 50. His hair gone white prematurely, white as the freshest snow, it was long and kept back with a little butterfly clip, which looked like it were encrusted with shiny, precious things. His face was triangular, and tapered off at his extremely pointed chin that was disguised beautifully by a miniature goatee of gnarly white hair, which, as well as disguising the pointy chin, paradoxically complemented his look exquisitely. His drinkers face was very red, and this, with his white hair, give the impression it'd been snowing on Mars. But more, much more than that, he resembled The Devil.

So I decided to tread carefully as I could but of course could not suppress the most pertinent character flaws...

- It's terrible. A terrible thing to be cheated on. I know how it feels, Tandy. Have been there myself. Recently. But with your brother...? God Save Ireland! You know what that is, on your brother, anyway? Incest Bi-proxy. I mean, he's shoved his dick where his brother's been putting it every other night for the past how many years. The dirty, dirty bastard. He should've gayed you up, his own brother, and been done with it...

On instantly replaying my previous words I was mentally kicking myself when it slapped me square in the face that what I'd said altogether made an already bad and dirty thing now a terrible and filthy thing. The Devil Tandy, throughout, nodded contemplatively, then sighed. I braced myself for his verdict:

- You're right, Daniel. But more than that you have made me see that in this they are much worse than I. Saying that I already knew it. But something about the empathy and understanding of a stranger, a stranger who has experienced similar, somehow is giving me a perspective from a place other than the place I've been lately, which is feeling the victim.

- Glad I could be of service.

- I'm still going to put my house on the market. Gonna take what I make of that and my retirement and fuck off out of this terrible country.

- More power to ye, Tandy. Wish I could do the same.

- You never know, Daniel. You soon might. I owe you a favour now.

He swung his mac on , round the shoulders, hem flying, and headed toward the big gate leading into the entry. Before he went he turned and winked, and I thought again about his resemblance to The Devil. Thought back too to my six sided dice, 6 on every side, and how I'd pulled it thrice, - always: .6, 6, 6...

And so The Devil, he owed me a favour.

He's Dead, But He Can't Be Buried

2011-05-28T20:20:00.000+01:00

This evening the street is deserted. The footpaths are empty and the swoosh of cars from the nearby overpass, a constant thread of undersound, - always - this evening has emigrated and silence reins.

The footie is on the tele. I look out my ironing room window at the line of houses across the street, studying the cookie-cut tapestries behind every front window, one identical to the next – and that tapestry-within-a-tapestry the television set, those too all the same, assuming Orwell's telescreen ubiquity this street of mine, those identical flatscreen televisions, all broadcasting the one symphony of colour and sound and light the same, run from one house to the next like bedazzling hypnotic beads on a fibreoptic string. I almost think I can sense the air humming...and come the 80^th minute, if the prospect of victory for Utd fans seems certain, the collective roar they'll emit will sound like a superwave rising like a giant's gloved hand over the entire land and crashing down upon us all.

Earlier this afternoon I went out and took a walk around to clear my head. I sat on the old peoples' favourite bench nearby and watched a parade of soldiers go by, back from somewhere, and having done something, that's set their faces askew.

I reflected with great sadness on the fact Gil Scott-heron's dead at 62. Dunno what happened to him, other than when he died he was in the hospital. These soldiers walking past, eyes forever more grimly fluctuating between deadly anticipation and combat-stricken sadness, they put me in mind of this song

which I put up here, in memory of Gil and as a requiem to the minds of these ones that came past me this afternoon.

Feel Sick And Dirty, More Dead Than Alive

2011-05-27T23:37:00.000+01:00

Today I got in a wild paranoid funk that ended up wasting the greater part of my afternoon. So paranoid was I that I missed a crucial episode of Neighbours.

What triggered it was the black helicopter that sat hovering directly above my house for two and a half hours.

I had this morning, as I have been doing every morning this past fortnight, risen when my TV switched itself on to coincide with the start of The Jeremy Kyle Show. After it was over I turned the tele off for some quiet time before This Morning started. It was then I heard it, the distant but nevertheless distinctive sound of a hovering helicopter, a hum like that of a mechanical mosquito.

I went out into the back garden and looked up at it. There it hung, glinting a little in the late morning sun. I went back inside and took from my cutlery drawer my novelty Batman Telescope that I got free of the cover of Tiger Beat many moons ago.

This Batman Telescope, being free thus shite, did not reveal much, except to say there were no markings on the thing, and it were a slightly dull blacky silver. I found this very perturbing.

I went back inside shaking my head and devising a plan, a plan that did not take much time in piecing itself together inside my mind. I would try to get a rise out of the sky creeps by getting the big iron pipe Party Time kept under his pillow and pointing it at them like it were a rifle (they probably wouldn't've been able to tell from up there), see if they fucked off or what.

I went upstairs and got it and brought it outside and stood there with it pointed in the air for a good five minutes till my arms got sore. The helicopter did not move, but the light of the day glinted again and again of its side, having a semi hypnotic effect on me.

Then some clouds passed along by it and I couldn't tell if it were gliding off or the clouds floating by were just giving it the illusion it were. But when the clouds passed fully the helicopter took off at great speed and disappeared over Black's Mountain, outta site.

All day I had dark surmisings go through my head, a jittery nauseating fear course through my being, a feeling like my whole body were experiencing butterflies. I did a little research on the net about Black Helicopters and drew the conclusion 'they' were trying out a sound weapon on me to test its effectiveness.

I nearly cried when it got near dinner time and still I could think of nothing else. It felt as if my head mechanisms had been thrown into flux and were unspooling all over the insides of my skull like an old fashioned playback machine going haywire and sending its magnetic cassette tape out in great spastics of twisting, twisting confusion.

It got so I'd to call someone up and get a bag a weed to try and calm the seas of my psyche, but I am still waiting for the bastard who said he'd be here at half 8, but there's been no sign yet...

For One More Forgotten Hero, And A World That Doesn't Care

2011-05-27T02:46:00.002+01:00

That night I had two profound thoughts occur to me, and all during Party Time's miasmic meanderings.

The first manifested itself when my attention began flaking, somewhere halfway through the crux of his narrative, and I took a turn down some ecclesiastical near-well-trodden-path and I realised something: That for independent businesses The Troubles were a boon, which is to say, a retail market empty as a nun's cunt was a veritable goldmine for the independent business owner...for there were no multinationals or American franchises wanting to invest over here, worrying employees under their watch were going to get blown to bits...ergo the half-savvy Sammy-Sixpacks, with their eccentrically titled corner shops, had it made!

The second thought, just in the present, I can't seem to recall...but nevertheless, I guess the rest of what happened when Party Time came back is what's really, I mean ostensible as a cancerous membrane, is what really, honest-to-God is on my mind...:

So I got him up into my place and away from that excitable neighbour and got him hunkered down into the lovely deep comfy recesses of my beautiful sofa.

- So tell me the rest, Party Time, - I went.

He was unresponsive as a disassociating child sex abuse victim. His eyes rolled in his head. I sensed there wasn't a threat to his here-and-now wellbeing, or mine, so I sat looking at him for the longest time and his skull took on a likeness of a basic fruit machine, his eyes rolling on and on forever and ever round and round, a formula of meanings, expectations...and possibilities.

He was in the grip of some sort of uber-amphetamine high...and truly there was nothing left to tell of his story between his leaving London and his getting back here, except to say he couldn't remember how he arrived back at mine.

An indeterminate time later he started wigging out. He started to scratch his face violently like that boy in Poltergeist, that Parapsychologist when he's at the bathroom mirror, - and - he also wet hisself.

I showed him the Two Girls One Cup video again and he stilled for a while and adopted this rudimentary dog-like expectant poise, like you're just a second away from throwing the stick.

I went through One Man One Jar, One Man One Horse, Three Men One Hammer...on and on the parade of sick audiovisuals went, and Party Time laughed and laughed like a maniac, laughed and laughed right up till he shot up off his perch, flung hisself halfway across the room and gagged on two sandpapery dry-heaves then boked this heinous green slime all over my lovely big shag-pile rug.

I reacted with massive aural horror and tried to articulate, albeit abstractly, my mortification through the eclectic verbal medium, but all I could muster was this hammy stage-hack job trying to approximate a seizure whilst emitting the noise of a deaf mute infant being dry arsed to bum bleed, - and so was all: - Right! We're goin out for a spin to get yer head cleared!

I drove around. The Newtownards Rd, Albertbridge Rd, up through Ballyhack and down through Stormount. I showed Party Time the building within which the Vaudeville Power lies.

When it seemed he'd calmed down I asked him if he were hungry.

- Ah ahm fackin foam-ished.
- Right then. Let's hit Micky D's!

We detoured roundways to the McDonald's that's across the way from the Dundonald hospital. I always liked this McDonald's the most for its apparent clean appearance. Though, to use an analogy, who knows what sinister trivia lurks in the subtext of the common quiz show standard.

I got Party Time a Big Mac and the cunt wolfed it in two gulps. As soon as the last of it was down his gullet he started going spasmodic on it again and took my butterfly knife out the glove compartment and started acting the Rambo with it.

- Take it easy, Party Time, - I went all softly-softly, bereavement councilor like. - You gotta just relax! - I went.
- Roll-axe?! Ha con ah Roll-axe? Wan fockin Chan-arse Sockrat Pal-ease as ova thah?

I squinted in the direction Party Time were pointing. This tragic looking, prematurely aged, McDonald's middle manager sadsack sort dawdled along in his pretzel frame with all the spring-in-his-step of a new arrival at Auschwitz.

- At as ham! - Declared Party Time like Lawrence of Arabia.

Then Party Time exited the vehicle, butterfly knife in hand, and went running full pelt toward the McDonald's till jockey all in mealymouthed loud babel and threatening bloody death.

In me some perverse humanitarian altruism had me act. I took myself from behind the wheel and chased after the Aryan Poster Boy Party Time, a great facial edifice of concentration writ large as I endevoured with all I had in me to catch up with the maniac. And, just before it was too late, I did...

...Party Time had got within a foot of the McDonald's man before I sweeped him from behind, catching his ankles and taking him down. His big diving board chin hit the ground first, followed not a great deal of time later by the majority of his face, which popped like a bad tamatae covering the immediate surrounding tarmac with his own blood and Crystal acne.

Yet this did not seem to faze him in the slightest, and actually the emotional occurrence that registered on his simian face was one like what 'the squares' faces' go like when a bit of couscous has gone down the wrong way.

He squirmed impatiently, bawling like a colic baby, so's I'd to pound him like there were no tomorrow, till he were knocked out cold, while the McDonald's binman star-jumped sideways; crablike in oldman trots till he were at a safe distance and could relax.

I hauled Party Time over to my motor and got him in the back seat. His nose came apart in three ways and I bust his top lip open at multiple points.

Back at home I took him outta the motor by the ankles and pulled him like a big sack of shite up my drive. Mrs Mulberry and one of her old doll bridge pals watched me and I'm sure I heard the pal go: “Fuck me, he's kilt'm!!!”

So I dug out a set of Kimba's sex handcuffs and handcuffed the big knocked out cunt to the radiator in my living room, where he stayed, sleeping for three and a half days, till he woke up. After which I threw him out.

Cunt's probably a homeless bum now...

What You Want For Nothin'? A Rubber Biscuit?

2011-05-25T23:50:00.004+01:00

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.

All Fucked Up, And We're All In It Together

2011-05-24T20:52:00.004+01:00

This last couple of weeks I all but dispensed with conventional time-telling ('all but' meaning apart from those times I left the house and couldn't help seeing the big public clock near to where I live). Instead, as a means of telling the time while indoors, I relied solely upon the order my favourite programmes appeared on the television and planned my day and mealtimes around these.

For e.g:

9:45am – 10:30am – The Jeremy Kyle Show

The Jeremy Kyle Show served as my wake-up call in the morning. Party Time, with his supposed bomb making skills, was able to wire the TV set up so that it would come on at a designated time, just like an alarm clock. I would woke up every morning to that sponsor's great theme tune:

'All fucked up/ /'
We're all in it together/
Bang-Bang Smack shoots up my vein/

This woman walks along the edge of a swimming pool pregnant with an enormous bingo ball, big as Moby Dick's eyeball, holding her belly and swooning. In the pool loads of other mothers' Bingo Ball Children are bobbing away contentedly. Said expectant mother suddenly stops, lets out a yell, then gives birth to her own Bingo Ball Child right into the swimming pool. Amazingly there is no placenta. Then the new mother chucks herself in on top of them, probably killing a few, including her own.

What I think this is communicating to the TV Buffoon's subconscious, the underlying symbolism fashioned in shrinks' labs to latch onto the tic-tac-toe of their innerminds, is:

'All you single mothers at home, just dropped one, another already in the oven. So far gone it's starting to brown round the edges. You got better turnover than a Leeds' McDonald's at lunchtime getting them out there...Yes all you single mothers, what do your children represent to you? Bingo Balls, and you're all hoping your one's the 'Full House' or one with 3 bedrooms and central heating anyway...So You! Yes You! Kill yourselves, and take some of your Bingo Ball Children with you!'

It so happened the other morning that while having a good old laugh at the expense of Jeremy's menagerie of half-mad creatures, I get a call on the telephone from Bosco:

- Hello, you cunt, - I say, - what do you want?

- That's not a very nice way to greet a pal after all this time, Danny?! - he went with inflections.

- You still selling your base, Bosco?

Oh yes, but that's not why I'm calling, you see I read your fuckin' wee girl diary Danny, only fuckin' emo's and trendy's, and fuckin' mongo's who're told to cos they've special needs and it helps them get over it, keep fuckin' diary's, Danny!

- So what, Bosco? What you getting your gusset in a twist over?

- Well, seeing your boasting all the while about your big cock, why'nt you put it up for the world to see? Give us all a big laugh. Cos I've seen your cock, Danny, and it ain't all that!

- You fuckin' wanna bet Bosco! I'll post it online and it'll go viral faster than fuckin' diarrhea through a UN refugee camp!

- Fuck me! Think I hit a nerve...hawrhawrhawr!!! - Then Bosco's laughter petered out and was replaced by this whimpering, like a kicked dog, and I asked him what was the mater...

- It's one of those adverts, Danny. The one about the starving in Africa...and you talking about getting the skids in a refugee camp and making jokes...you fucking bastard!

- That's what you call synchronicity! What channel's it on. I Love those adverts.

- Channel 4. Cunt!

I watched the ad for a bit, and while ruminating on the synchronicitous circumstances, a feeling swooped over the landscape of my soul...and I had a brainwave which I think might one day solve All African Hunger – something that not even a million Live Aids could achieve: Why don't they eat the flies! There's fucking loads of em!

I relayed my divine revelation to Bosco..

- So what I propose is you gas the villages with something that will knock out the flies but will be harmless to the starving villagers' malnourished and depleted immunity systems. When all the flies are knocked out you get all those child-pimping UN soldiers in there to shovel them up and put them into cauldrons. Then, and it doesn't take a Jamie Oliver to solve this one: You boil all the flies up in the cauldron, to kill whatever diseases they may be carrying, add some, I don't know, palm leaves or whatever to garnish, and Bob's Your Uncle...Fanny's Your Aunt...!

- You're a sick cunt, Danny...get that cock of yours online...give the world a laugh you pathetic bastard!!!

Beat Me Outta Me

2011-05-01T22:08:00.001+01:00

After a night of cheap vodka and bad coke I woke up this morning with a headache so heavy, deep and painful that it made my eyes water. Luckily I had to counterbalance this a big stiff hangover horn hard-on, and as soon as I was fully awake I stared stroking it long, slow and smoothly, long, slow and smoothly – so smooth from spitting onto the palm of my wanking hand, as lazy lube.

Afterward, having conjured this girl I were bucking from back when I went to tech, I laughed to myself when I remembered how after the first time I sliced her she wanked me back to hardness and she goes, gripping it like a joystick: Danny Pongo, its so beautiful, and big – you go right up in me, so deep and far I can nearly feel it in my stomach…it’s soooo biggg! --- And I waited a while, let the comic timing stretch for pace, and say: We’re gonna need a bigger boat ---

I rub me semen into my skin, as it’s supposed to be good for it, then get my little Tinkerbell vanity mirror out and put some in my hair and style it how I like. Short of gel, there’s nothing holds like semen.

I go out for some Rice Krispies and in the grocery store nearly have a cry when I go to the cat food aisle for Boke the Cat. But after paying the girl I distract myself from sad thoughts of mourning by having a lightbulb moment concerning my personal hygene and ideas of self preservation.

Now, my thinking on this matter followed this course: I have a lovely, spunky wank this morning…it goes all over me, I rub it all into my skin and put it in my hair, and I leave the house without washing my hands…I pay the girl in the grocery store for my shit using cash, and inevitably our hands might touch (which they did) and now she’s gonna have traces of my semen on her. The problem is then if she’s say raped or murdered by an opportunistic crazy, the pigs are gonna examine her corpse afterward and find my seed on her. The chances of this happening are not completely remote, either her being murdered or me being caught. She has a few stalkers alright. Such a sweet fresh wee thing, still in school, but legal for sure…for after all, as Party Time observed: Old enuf tah sail Thah San, Old enuf far wan app Thah Bam!

So, yeah. Lesson being wash your semen off your hands before you leave the house. Pigs will work harder to pin it on you than to find the culprit. Less work that way. But sometimes they go all out to find a patsy, cos they gotta, cos who really did it can’t be done – usually due to the perp’s standing or for other esoteric reasons.

When I got home I found Rhonaldo in the kitchen doing the dishes. He was in nothing but a pair of tight little day-glo green cotton boxers. I sat there and put one leg over the other and watched his full round arse point and jut and tense while he squelched away in all the soapy suds with all the plates and cutlery clanging.

And I pulled out another one, a sneaky one this time, imagining that soft young arse of his rise up before me, full and round and plentiful as a rising sun. Then I imagined that sexy wee bit from the grocery store joining us as well and us all having a sexy, sweaty dirty threesome.

And I proceeded to beat me outta me!

I Say, Wills Dont You Ever Crave To Appear In The Daily Mail Dressed In Your Mothers Bridal Veil?

2011-05-01T03:49:00.003+01:00

Yesterday for the Royal Wedding Party Time had his cohorts round to talk about his latest wheeze, which is, like I said in the previous post, the importation and distribution of Crystal.

The only thing I have said on the issue is that instead of going to the trouble of importing it why not just make it up here. Fuck, the internet says it’s a piece of piss. Chemicals, some tubing, some other chemicals….but no….Party Time says the risks are too great, both in ‘law’ risky, and in ‘could-kill-yourself’ risky, as it is a dangerous game making Crystal. Very Explosive.
- Ah hove san many a few palls keelt in a math-lob act-splosion! – Went Party Time, lamentingly.

I still think importing it is most risky of all, but what do I know. Furthest up the rung on that particular ladder I’ve ever got is selling shit on in bars, grams and ounces, depending on the product.

After they’re done having their ‘sit-down’, as Party Time likes to call it Mafioso-like, we all sit down to watch the Royal Wedding. Luckily we tuned in at just the right time, just as the bony pony Kate emerged from her lovely posh hotel in her nice frock.

She is a bony pony all right.

Some hours later I read this claim by a commenter on Anna Grace’s blog called Valerie and thought back to her bony pony face.

“PS what did you think of the Royal Wedding?

GLUED to that screen, I was! Now I don't know about Wills but you want to watch that Kate. Someone told me the other day she was a notorious prostitute in Tottenham North London and a real one for the crack pipe!”

And I thought, reading this and casting my mind back not an hour or more: I can see that.

Some other thoughts I had regarding the Royal Wedding go thusly:

"as for that royal pair it was discreetly mentioned in the papers over here, they're cousins, distant cousins. man, i got thrown outta a bookies yesterday for asking if they did odds on terrorists attacking the whole thing, and if htey give out different odds on different organizations. but i hope they fucking do, and all hte fawning dickheads they got on the sky news tonight as well, blow em all to kingdom come! she's a sleeket bitch who has been i think placed under some sort of mk ultra like programming - and he is as useful as a paper shower curtain. he is dumb as dirt, and while he was v.sweet sixteen, handsome ways, he has now lost all his hair and his head is in the shape of a peanut. she, though, she's lovely. but now v.skinny. i thought once that if she appears on the money soon as queen it means you can have a wank over your money, yeah, vpretty...saying that by the time she's queen she be old and withered and have a resemblance to an old man's finger."

"god in heaven! I hate em both!!!

i wonder if he has forced her to let him up in the VIP entrance? i bet he has. i reckon this is how they choose their wives, the royal blue blood inbred twats.

just like a perverted Cinderella, wills has to find the right hole that can sustain his enormous reptilian dinosaur cock (as they are all reptilian shape-shifters, the royals) - the exact right fit, for there is a girl out there that will - it has been predestined through dna, and it will most likely be a relative of his!

but really though, they're all, the royals, baby eating, human sacrificing satan worshipping (all for real!) oddballs, y'all!"

And in response to these pictures from here:

"Its not their penises, its diana's nose (harry's got the cloned one) that they keep tied round their leg, and keep with them as a lucky charm....i'm. ABSOLUTELY sure of it Infomainiac!!!!"

Some time through the day I got monumentally bored.

I suggested to Rhonaldo, Billiard, Slug and Party Time we have a circle jerk (wank race) and I open a book on it.

So that’s what we did. Party Time recommended the odds on me were shortest as I had a great cock, but that it had a hair trigger.

- Cant con meek hamshelf cam jooz bah thee site aff hees ahn cack! – Went Party Time.

Slug complained that with the Queen keeping on getting into shot it would put him off, so we placed him as the rank outsider.

The Sky News cut to the balcony and we were off…

Billiard has his great pale belly pulled up out of the way and was going hammer and tongs, his face near as purple as his bell end with all his concentration.

Party Time’s wouldn’t work, and the more frustrated he got the more he pulled and jerked at his big brown trunk. At one point he yanked at it so hard I thought he was gonna rip it off.

Rhonaldo and Slug had a good rhythm going, very boring, and I sat there stroking all my half-a-foot, slowly and smoothly, working up a fat little bead of precum before slathering it all over my helmet’s edge…

And just like that, when the new Royal Pair lean in to share their first kiss as a married couple, I shoot the shit just as their lips meet…right in their fucking faces…

We all laughed and swapped coin…

Beat You RedWhiteBlue As The Flag Stick Your Head In A Bag Till You're Startin To Gag

2011-04-27T03:08:00.002+01:00

So in regards the penultimate statement I made last night, in regards the ‘intel apparatus’ mentioned, I learn that unbeknownst to me Party Time has been having pow-wows with spidey wee fuckers in my place when I’ve gone out for the day.

These pow-wows were taken up with discussions planning the loose organization of some sort of network, whereby Party Time would import Crystal from London, and him and this wee band of vicious looking cunts I found sitting round in my living room yesterday afternoon would then distribute it around the place.

It has also transpired that Party Time has been using my phone to call his connections in London who would get stuff sorted that end.

I am in fucking full red alert tonight!!!!!!

Last night, speaking to mother on the phone about Coronation Street, we hear three distinct clicks, like a phone somewhere else in the house were being picked up, put down and picked up again. I just thank my lucky stars she attributed this to the telegraph lines being haunted by those souls who had passed while on the phone, but unfortunately for me I knew the terrible truth of it – the truth of it being it was much more likely to be: Intel/Police/Some other sophisticated gang (doubtful)

This trio collected from god-knows-where by Party Time are for sure the most dangerous looking and weird bunch I’ve ever encountered in this place.

They are Billiard, Slug, and Rhonaldo (not cos he’s Brazilian, but in reference to his prowess on the field of soccer).

Rhonaldo is the youngest at 16 and he sits looking at me his mouth opening and closing opening and closing like a sinister goldfish, he’s chewing his gum, then he blows a big bubble and pops it and Party Time takes the opportunity to break the ice and he tells me what’s happening.

Billiard like his name suggests his entirely in the shape of a Billiard ball. He is early 20’s by the looks of him and is very fat and he breathes heavily every time he shifts.

The last one Slug I have met before many moons ago (he was mentioned on this years ago). He is missing three fingers in total and he told me back then his molester uncle cut them off with pliers. I do remember though subsequently finding out the real story was he got em cut off in prison by bullies and was too ashamed to admit it.

So this was them. Party Time had not yet made up a name for his gang but I’m sure he will, knowing him. No doubt there’ll not be a wall in Belfast safe either with them adding their tag everywhere.

Last night I went out for a pint of milk and I spied a car with two dudes in civvies in it watching me. They’d this big long slender aerial sticking out the back, and the motor had new plates on it, too. I thought I was gonna drop dead from an anxiety fit.

Then last night I had a nightmare about that murderous looking wee cunt, Rhonaldo. His eyes stared into mine, but they’re like an empty TV screen and there’s nothing behind them but wires and cogs and this liquidy faecal matter driven by pistons and coursing through the valves of his mind.

I woke up in a state of panic and have remained that way for the rest of the day.

And I miss Boke the Cat, who, by letting me stroke him, was able to calm me down in times like this…

Here’s what Party Time’s trio would put you in mind of:

God's On Our Side, We Know We're Right, Come To The Light: Say Goodbye To All Your History

2011-04-26T04:38:00.003+01:00

I have been all at 6’s and 7’s this last week busying me and Party Time into rustling up the coin so’s we can buy up some provisions, or, what I am calling them: ‘Our Doomsday Supplies’.

Having learnt I’d suffered a bereavement (Boke The Cat’s dead *RIP*) + a massive dive in serotonin levels due to the ingesting of 3 of the strongest e’s I’ve had in years (ergo subsequent comedown being equally powerful) + add into the mix: I learn my sister Micheesha has taken up again with that Stupid Peter, having kicked him out 2 or 3 months back for whipping the children with “electrical cut-offs” he nicked off the building site he works on.

Party Time told me a story the other day about how when he was destitute in London - (thought that’s not where he’s from, for those seeking to whittle down the suspects, so to speak) – and found himself living in some old derelict former funeral home, down and out in the strictest sense, his mental wellbeing decimated by some type of meth induced paranoid psychosis, so much so he’s into believing that the Triads are after him and were, at any minute, going to locate him and haul him off and stub out fag ends on his forehead, or whatever it is the Triads do when you cross them big style.

He filled me in a little on the circumstances that led up to this; dealing Crystal outta a house in (one of those well known run down areas of London) with this Sri Lankan (or Nepalese [can’t remember]) doll, who was his woman, and how something had ensued with them, money or whatever, and she basically either twisted his head or was for real in convincing him she *was* getting the Triads on him (even though I thought they were exclusively a Chinese gang).

So he’s walking the streets of London and finds himself in this derelict funeral home and then, in the telling of this story, he switches to talking about the one’s in the gang he was in, back at where he’s from, that they got this thing, can’t remember, but they got a name for it, its like a string round their neck, with a Clipper Lighter and a pipe strung through, so when they took a notion to have a toke their instruments weren’t more than an inch from their lips. But, the point of him telling me this, he says, is that these were the ones who were really caning it, all the time, and that sort of Crystal using it forms, like, bubbles on the brain, these chemical collections, that cannot be processed by the body, or broken down, so these highly corrosive chemical build-ups eat into the brain, destroying certain parts of it like the areas dealing with short-term memory and pleasure receptors. And that is why, he tells me, when he started hitting it hard due to his paranoia, his face became all collapsed in like an old man on chemo and his teeth are all gone to shit, cos whatever chemicals are used in the manufacture of Crystal, the left-behinds in the body eat you up. But these chemical build-ups don’t only collect in the brain or eat away at your innards; they can be expelled through the pores and sometimes come out like acne.

So Party Time’s there, in this derelict funeral home, where he also finds a coupla other squatters, these Lithuanians, and they got the place all wired up with a TV and microwave etc, proper wee bolthole. For Party Time, though, the Triad heebie-jeebies are rocking him real bad. His face has broken out with this ‘chemical acne’ after the heavy using, this build up of dermatological meth clusters under his skin. So in his desperation, to stave off ‘the fear’, he pops this shit into a square of tin foil and puts it in his pipe, like as a gauze, and smokes it…

…Ahhh!!!

But that ain’t even the half of it. Party Time’s maybe got us some attention from our own intel apparatus here in lovely NI, the Special Branch, but that’ll have to be for another time.

It’s only left for me to say that with this convergence of anxieties, 1 part circumstance of environment, 2 parts consequence, if I were a country I’d be on amber alert with the threat level sliding toward red. The walls are closing in on all fronts, with the micro mirroring the macro…it may all go to shit tomorrow for one and all, and who wants to be left like a spare dick at an orgy…the results are in, and the coin’ll be found to stock the cupboards, steel ourselves against the prevailing winds of discord, keep the rolling news on a loop…and maintain:

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

2011-04-10T17:45:00.000+01:00

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…”

You'll See: That Someone Who Really Cares Is Me

2011-04-07T15:44:00.000+01:00

This morning I went round to the local newsagents and bought an Easter Egg for my brekkie. It was one of those teensy child’s sized ones, no bigger than one of Boke the Cat’s shites, so I was a little shocked and surprised to discover these newsagent gangsters were charging £2.99 for it.
- Eat an ovary, ya cunt, - I went and walked out.

My plan had been to break the egg up in a breakfast bowl, marinade with Rice Krispies, add milk, and put in the microwave for 30 seconds. £2.99 put the kibosh on that one.

So I put some of Boke the Cat’s Rabbit & Gravy Wiskas in a sandwich and put it in the toastie maker. It weren’t too bad, but I felt a little guilty after realising I’d ate for my brekkie what were meant to be for Boke’s dinner, and now there were no more Rabbit & Gravy Wiskas left…

So later on that afternoon me and Party Time took a bus out to one of the big forests on the outer reaches of the ‘General Belfast Area’ to go hunting for wildlife. Party Time carried his pellet gun in a sportsbag. It happened that I got a big dose of the heebie-jeebies, picturing a squad of pigs out doing they’re thing and seeing us with that rifle of his. I thought, my brain chattering like teeth in the cold - In light of recent blowings-up by some Provo tribute band I know the pigs’ will have their instincts honed and their safeties off…They see a brute like Party Time running round with a rifle they’re gonna shoot us down dead.

When we got far enough into the forest, further than most go anyway, Party Time took the rifle from his sportsbag, theatrically buffed the barrel with a cloth and checked the sights. Due to my pig-paranoia I told him I’d hang back about 10 foot or so to act as a spotter, but really so's to have space and time to duck or leg-it if a jittery pig were lurking and bullets started to fly.

It turned out to be a productive day. Party Time bagged two squirrels and got a badger right through the brain. The badger we would have in a stew and the squirrels we would feed to Boke the Cat. At one point Party Time had a lovely big old cuckoo lined up in his sights and an odd thing happened. The cuckoo started to sing, and Party Time lowered the rifle, put it back in his sportsbag and said:

- Thot ees enuf killan far taday. It was like that part in the Deer Hunter, when De Niro can’t shoot the deer as his ordeal in ‘Nam has made him a better person. Or something.

We walked though the rain for the rest of the way back, and as Party Time was on a killing high I decided to ask after the whereabouts of Kimba.
- What’d you do with her? – I asked.

- Ah hove sat har frah, Danna. Sha nah yers nah langa! Ah’ve san sam harra shaws an mah day Danna. Thang’s ah wall nat dwoll an. Bat Danna, wath thah evol ah’ve san ah nid ah lattle luvin lite tah shan thru, yah know? – The rain ran off his soft thin hair like a gentle stream moves over reeds. – So ah parfarmed ahn oct aff lav ahn yer beeholf, cas’, cos wah bath nid sam gadnass pat back an are speerts, Danna! Ah laughed har weeth than Halacast Spide. He as thah wan shah whand nah, Danna! –

The rain ran down his Meth pocked and concave face, but it were tears more that ran down mine…

The Strange Wonders That Lurked In This World

2011-04-04T16:56:00.000+01:00

Last night found me sitting at my grotty kitchen table buttering a piece when here I feel an almighty juddering spasm mid-spine and I fall sideways off the chair and onto the floor just like a big bag of spuds.

I lay there, consumed by agony, my frame jerking like a dog’s hind quarters when it’s taking a squirty shite. Boke the Cat wandered over and stood regarding me this way and that before doing an about turn and pointing his round little shrivelled up anus at me. He stayed like this for such a long time, long enough for me to imagine to myself that it (Boke’s anus) might bear some resemblance to the nostril of Ashanti Elliot-Smith that little girl who’s, like, 8 year old in human years but has the body of an 86 year old - all due to some freak occurrence in Time/Space the very moment she came out her ma’s box, something like a bleeding overlap between dimensions the very moment she appeared, causing her cells to go into super-fastforward like you get on all the new-fangled digital cassette machines, probably.

That girl is a fascination to me though. The things she's got is called Progeria Syndrome. The frame and build of a child, but the withered-ness and calluses of an oul’ cunt. I would like to hear what a nonce would make of that…

Which slaloms me neatly onto the issue of sexual deviancy. In order to try and cheer him up after his ordeal of the other day I made an effort to share with Party Time my penchant for the sexually surreal and disturbing.

After some consideration I decided that what would best give him an insight into the strange wonders that lurked in this world of mine were these two classics below:

Find more videos like this on ThisIs50.com

Two Girls One Cup was Top Of The Pops for Party Time. He flapped about like a fish outta water laughing and gagging in insanely sharp snapping alternations while I sat rubbing myself all the while. It’s a favourite of mine, too.

Divine in Pink Flamingos with the dog’s dirt he chundered at. I did similar on first viewing as well. I was 12 and a half when I first saw Pink Flamingos, directed by genius John Waters. I must’ve watched it 1000 times after that. I loved that scene the most. I burnt the tape out stopping and rewinding, stopping and rewinding going back to the point she puts it in her mouth. I started getting into finding out more about the act of eating shit, any shit, human, animal, whatever. When I discovered Salvador Dali ate his own shit I thought, ‘Cool bananas! Dali’s way cool! Should I start eating my own shit too? Will this make me a better painter, seeing I’ve now almost totally given up on the music career (having taped myself doing a woeful improvisational jazz album in the style of ‘Kind Of Blue’ by Miles Davis on my school recorder)’ – but the furthest I went was cleaning my arse with my bare hand one morning before school and boking into Mother’s bidet and all over my nice good shoes.

So while I reminisced on this it all-of-a-sudden dawned on me that Party Time hadn’t told me what he’d done with Kimba. So I turn to ask him, but he’s conked out – but so I let him be for the meantime.

Clutches Of Sad Remains

2011-04-03T06:35:00.002+01:00

Some time late this afternoon Party Time comes in fuckin cock-of-the-walk, half-cut, with Boke the Cat under one arm and the hand of the other stuffed deep in the pocket of his big ugly green duffel coat. In the pocket of his duffel coat is a Jiffy Bag with part of his nostril in it.

- Ah wont inta ah bor Danna Panga… - he said haltingly welling up while I started to clandestine-like examine the extent of the bit that’d been bit outta his neb. ..-Wat as tha wast thang yo con axe far an ah bor an BowlsFast? Wha? – implored Party Time.

- Hmm, - I went…-Hmm…I suppose, regardless of where you were, be it the Hideout on The Pass or the Northern Whig, I guess the worst thing you could ask for in a bar in Belfast would be…”boy, four year old, with a arsehole Wide Open, this wide…”- I went, stretching my arms out at either side to indicate the massive diameter (or for those assuming from afar, approximating the length of a sperm whale’s cock).

The fool Party Time took a dander down The Pass to The Hideout after all it turns out having already travailed the bars of Belfast one end till the other going from one scummy hole till the next, the bars getting scummier as he went as he endeavoured to evaluate the scumminess of each place in order to establish its suitability for scoring Crystal.

So while he laughed at my ‘four year old boy’ suggestion in increasingly more-powerful bursts of fits-and-starts, (his big bodily granite edifice spasming like a woman experiencing a full-body orgasm), his overall spirit all of a sudden administered a psychic reboot and just like that he curled up like paper held near a flame, his whole person/a did, and he rolled up in the corner of my lovely big faux-leather sofa, the noise of his joints cracking sounding like the crackling of fresh autumn leaves being diligently trod on.

- Ah bat nah, Danna Panga! Nah! Tha wast ting yah con axe fah in a bor an BowlsFast as fochan Crastal, cas’! – Meaning cousin.

Turned out The Hideout on The Pass were the end of the line as far as City Centre saloon scumminess went. So Party Time went in there like Bronson in Once Upon A Time In The West and starts givin-it-large: Ah Ahm An Mossad! Ah Ahm 33ard Dograh Frahmaison – Tanth Gene-ar-asian AlliminNazi! ---

He’s looking Crystal.

Been all over looking.

Wiggin’ Out!

And finally he wanders into this retrospective alternate dimension, this Quantum Leap anachronism, and asks them if they got some Crystal going, ‘after hours’ so to speak.

When he’s telling me the next part I’ve to join the thing together between his big Party Time bawls:

- Sah thah bor kab tall me tah waits tall hah moke a fan call. Hah moke thah call ahn hah talls mah hah con sart mah at. Ah wall ladder thah cam an…Far aff tham. Thah jamp mah ahn cack mah ramp had! Cack at had Danna Panga. Cack et ap at mah ease!!!

Party Time quietened for a while and stared up off into space. Indeterminate seconds passed before a spontaneous grand mal dissociative conditioning was triggered, then, savant-like, he launched into the rest of the tale:

- Thah thags tak mah at thah bak an bat mah abat. Thah hat mah bod, Danna. Thah strap mah naked ahn staff a snah-kah cue ap mah arsh! Ahn wan thah dah thot thah damp mah an a ban – heed fast! –

So I ream through an hour or so of consoling overtures, ensuring him the cunts’ll be done, and then I tell him, in no uncertain terms, that I really don’t think he’s got it in him for a life on the wrong side of the law. The truth of it is he ain’t hard enough, and he ain’t got the street moxie neither.

But, as always, Danny Pongo got a plan…and at least some of what Party Time conceived of I can alchemise………………………………..

Love Me Or Leave Me Baby, Either One You Wanna Do...

2011-03-31T14:00:00.002+01:00

I woke up this morning my face stuck in my cornucopias dusty ashtray, a gubful of spent fag butts and red weepy eyes, lids pebbledashed with debris and a mascara of nicotine smudging my lovely big shiny cheeks.

I made a cup of coffee in the kitchen and drank it red hot while watching the mongrel out the back taking a slow and determined trembly shite on the vivid-green springtime grass and I thought to myself, ‘this is the springtime of my dollar and cent,’ meaning, in my hallucinatory and philosophical bent of the morning, that my fortunes would be collapsing around my ears.

Party Time has been AWOL for a week. We parted on contentious terms when I suggested he wasn’t cut out for the pimping game and him retorting that he was more than. Then he kidnapped Kimba.

We kept her prisoner for a couple of days until she escaped, nude, out the bathroom window. Mrs Mulberry was out stroking her cat and nearly dropped dead of a heart attack when she saw her naked person emerge onto the street to run in circles screaming her head off and acting the loon.

- They tried to brainwash me/brainwash me. They tried to brainwash me like before, - she went hysterically, attracting people out of their houses with her shrieks of insanity. I assume she were having some sort of LSD flashback to when her elderly child sacrificing witchy foster parents took her ‘over the rainbow’ .

I stood spying on proceedings from my front room upstairs. Party Time stood at the front door, his muscular arms folded machoesque across his big barrel chest. Even from upstairs I could sense the crackling in the air, his fly mind processing imminent aversion tactics.

Kimba eventually tired herself out and fell half fucked across the bonnet of a car, buck naked and flaked out. Then some roly-poly Sunday morning church-goer from across the street comes the Good Samaritan and goes up to her real slow with a blanket held out at arms length like he’s an adventurous animal hunter approaching a dangerous armadillo, and this blanket of his was some ugly fluffy polyester thing with a classic picture of Gentle Jesus on it surrounded by Disney characters. At this point Party Time moved from pondering to action and went up to the Nice Man.

- Yo! Hampty Dampty! - He went. The Nice Man flinched startled and looked round. Party Time went, - Yo most ceaze and dahsist! Thas skinnie arse on tha caar as a danger crominal! She hos swollowd a danger soicide bumb, she as an agont of ALLAH!!! - Screamed Party Time resembling The Predator, the epic noise of his screaming naming of The Prophet making the birds take flight from the trees and fawns in Indo China look up suddenly from their lakeside supping - no doubt.

Informed of this information the Nice Man turned on his heels and took flight back into his nice little Hansel and Gretel house, screaming to some unseen occupant, probably his equally roly-poly red cheeked wife, to call the minister. Party Time scooped Kimba up and put her over his shoulder. He came back in the house, took my keys of the hall table, then put her in the back seat of my motor. He sped of with a customary wheelspin, and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the pair since…!

It Isn't Right, You'll Never Know - I Am So Sad, Why Did You Go?

2011-03-12T18:29:00.009Z

What would take people out on a day like this? – Thought I as me and Party Time dandered up the road near to where my house is. Party Time needed some smokes so we stopped at the Centra at the corner of my street and I waited outside while he went in and got them. He started taking some time so I went into the offies two doors up and bought myself a little ¼ of Glen’s vod and sat throwing it into me on the steps of the offies by a couple of old soaks and a gypsy selling a copy of the Big Issue from years ago. Then who passes but Kimba and her new beau. I clock straight of she’s wearing an engagement ring and then take a good look at the job they done on her melted off face and was glad and not a little surprised to see they’d fixed her up pretty good, save for the general Clingfilm sheen she emitted, but that could be easily explained away as over-moisturising or pregnancy glow.

- Here, - I went harassingly, getting up and following – you never told me you were getting hitched? Kimba? Who’s this punk?

The beau turned on me and got in my face. He smelt of expensive cologne and was wearing some dear looking trainers.

- I should kick your fuck in, what you done to her, cunt, - went this big Tarzan – who turned out to be, after I give him a good shove and took a close look at his face, who it was was the Holocaust Spide I’d karate chopped one time before. He’d certainly filled out the little cunt. He’d gone from Otto Franks to Dolph Lundran since I seen him last.

- Bitch, you never call or write – I went to Kimba – What’s happening, what’ve you taken up with this sucker for?

- Like you were gonna amount to much, Danny Pongo.

- Did I see you playing frizzbe with this one a month or two ago in the Ormeau Park?
- Yeah, that was me. Me and Holocaust Spide met up at a Victims’ Support Group over a year ago. I was still goin with you when I met him. We’d met months before that time you came in and caught us bumming on the floor. He displays more grace and gentlemanliness in a day than you have your whole life Danny Pongo!!!
- Well, I hope you and this brute are very happy together, - said I while Kimba looked on expectantly. Holocaust Spide flexed and clenched his fists. – What, bitch? You think I’m going to shed a tear for you? Fuck, I’d sooner fall on my sword!

I looked away and Holocaust Spide pulled a fly one and smacked me full pelt right at the back end of my jaw. Luckily Party Time had got out of the shop with his smokes and ran at a gallop full force head first into Holocaust Spide and smashed his kisser up real good.

We left Holocaust Spide on his back on the footpath his own teeth strewn about his person like bones’d been thrown. Kimba stood to one side screaming blue murder. I gripped my jaw on the left side and felt it’d come away at two points. Party Time stalked up and down the street scaring grannies and precious mothers out with their children on their late afternoon/early evening constitutionals. Without much fanfare he grabbed Kimba slung her over his shoulder then threw her in the boot of my motor.

I was feeling very sinister as I pulled out with a screech and gunned the shit heap car toward the bridge so I stuck this one in the tape deck.

After a four-hour wait in the hospital I got my jaw wired up by a sexy small-tits nurse. I am sitting now writing this with my feet up on Kimba who is down on all fours before me in a type of ‘human furniture’ sort of programming Party Time has fitted her with after having injected her with something first. I am pumping this track into her skull over and over and over and over…

Do You Believe In Monsters? Do You Believe In Demons?

2011-03-12T02:19:00.007Z

The teddy bear excursion to the club didn’t go well.

In a fit of desperation we sojourned to Thompson’s where we hoped to find a couple of pudgy greasy faced students randy for a three-way (anal, oral, vaginal), - our
little teddy bears, sticky red cocks stiff and primed for carnal engagement with Izzy Hoyland’s yeasty raw-fish snatch.

How we got in past the Tarzan faced bouncers I’ll never know. Party Time was
clucking on ‘Adolph’s Amphetamine’ the crystal methamphetamine and wasn’t two steps inside the heavy oppressives of the Thompson’s hole when he starts helecoptoring round and round the dancefloor his fists balled at the end of his long arms spinning wildly and deadly, big as two sledgehammers, clocking two millies in the way. This gang of head-the-balls appeared from out behind pillars and each other a la Agent Smyth from The Matrix and descended on Party Time. Me standing watching, forehead hedgerowed with wrinkling deep furrows, I slink into the melee around the growing crowd dancing furiously in an encouragement of combat, egging on this strange ape-like man mountain, muscles stuffed into his tight translucent skin like a condom stuffed with walnuts.

This track played and Party Time went on a furious and violent melee attack. I swear if these people had’ve been sick like with cancer or some other sort of wasting disease the power of Party Time’s blows would’ve done more than knocked the taste outta the cunts’ mouths. A Thor like swinging power he would’ve knocked their heads
off their frames like Tiger Woods whacks golf balls off a tee.

I scored an e from one of the spidey yokes taking advantage of the confusion to emerge out of the back quarters to sell his contraband openly. It was a good e and it didn’t take me long coming up on it and enjoying the last few beats of Venetian Snares magnum opus.

After what was an indeterminate time dancing while wrapped up tightly into myself like I do, arms, head, specifically chin curled up in my middle chest, Party Time grabs me round the throat and hauls me off like a sex offender gimp on a promise.

In the alley outside a pair of pigs were scampering toward us, shouting loud questions as they went. Party Time legged it and so did I, and it didn’t take long till I overtook him – my prolonged burst of superhero like speed chemically encouraged by the beezer e.
- This e’s fuckin ace of spades Party Time, - I observed to Party Time.
- I wish I’d hove got wan, - he lamented.

We got as far as Custom House Square before we stopped to catch our breath. In my hallucinogenic, adrenaline soaked perceptions I beheld two opaque versions of us, me and Party Time, running along a few feet behind and when they reached us I noticed very briefly a twisted demonic rendering of our features and before I could fully take this in they turned and disappeared into our persons.

We sat by the old courthouse and I rolled us a couple of smokes. A few rollers came past but we were in the shadows and out of sight. We were silent, but I knew what we were both thinking: We’d have to up our pimp game if we wanted to make some coin.

A Whore Ain't Nothing But A Trick To A Pimp

2011-03-08T18:02:00.006Z

Party Time’s plans and moxie in whoring Izzy Hoyland have gone down faster than shit through a greasy funnel. It is our Uncle who has put the kibosh on things - in that way - by the rundown he give us the other night:
-...So that is why you can’t turn her out boys. For one thing, that bitch could keep a jail without a key -
- I hove got thah skills, she wall be undoor my control leek these – retorted Party Time, loudly clicking his bony branch like fingers.

On the way home Party Time pulled his copy of Pimp from the glove box and started to read out loud from it. After a minute I stopped him.
- I’ll read it. I can’t make out a fuckin word from you. Take the wheel and watch the road:

“Believe me, Slim, a pimp is really a whore who’s reversed the game on whores. Slim, be as sweet as the scratch…No sweeter. And always stick a whore for a bundle before you sex her. A whore ain’t nothing but a trick to a pimp….But a good pimp could cut his swipe off and still pimp his ass off. Pimping ain’t no sex game. It’s a skull game.”

Party Time interrupted, nodding and humming sagely in agreement.

It feels most of all that I am riding mute shotgun on Party Time’s little caper. My end is in getting him to rent my place to use as his base of operations . But that is not all. What I got fermenting slowly, in the recesses of both the mind and soul, is a scheme that’s effectiveness lies in its being allowed to grow of its own accord in the cerebral realms – like a good strong alcoholic spirit, its strength lies in its age, - or in this case its scope for furnishing contingencies and seeing the caper from every conceivable angle. To begin with: The concept is blackmail. The target:The johns. First of all, though, and most importantly, teddy bears will not go into the wood without promise of a picnic. At this picnic the only thing in the basket is Izzy Hoyland. So how to get that cat in there without being scratched? With that one thing she knows how to do good: turning a trick.

I told Party Time to drive as I had to think. I rolled a joint and smoked it with my eyes closed. Thinking took a mind cleared of muddle and a mind’s eye relieved of neuronal chatter – a psychotic fog lifted with the aide of my weed. We would go to a club. There we would find those teddy bears. I give Party Time the directions…

Opiate Utopia Is Hotter By The Hour

2011-03-05T02:21:00.006Z

So I took Party Time up to my Uncle’s to show him what he had to work with in Izzy Hoyland. He wasn’t all that impressed.
Afterward in my motor driving back to mine he said in his foreign accent, - She os fockin ruff, Donny Pongo!
- Don’t worry Party Time, - I said – with that money you got of my laptop we’ll fix her up good as new. Our uncle has told me in her day she was hot stuff. It was when she charging men to plug her did the looks start to fade, -
- It os often thah way, thot wan a beetch starts to sell her snatch* ot os not long till she stort tornin’ into a hard-leg**.
After he explained that to me I said, - That’s right, Party Time. But maybe Izzy Hoyland’s time has come round again, maybe its time we took her outta retirement to spread her flaps once more, -
- Hoah Hoah Hoah Hoah Hoah, - went Party Time, the noise of his big laugh tumbling from his head like rocks down a mountainside.

Back at mine we put on some music (which I won’t be posting as I still don’t know if previous Youtube embeddings caused said videos to be deleted from there [look at last entry]) and had a dance to it. It was Scissor Sisters – Invisible Light…

…fuck it…

After we fed ourself with scraps from last night’s stew me and Party Time went out with his air rifle into the back yard to shoot little birds out of Mrs Mulberry’s lovely big Ficus Tree to feed to Boke the Cat. We got three little birds, dead there in the yard, lovely and still and peaceful with clean dark holes
shot right through their colourful fat little cute feathery chests – all clean kills with no pain – a tribute to Party Time’s marksmanship and uncruel way (with animals anyway). We took them back in and I put them in my blender with a few vitamin tablets and got them all mooshied up while Boke curled and rubbed around my leg, his purrs sounding like a revving muscle car in slo-mo.

Later we took a run up to Sydenham to my sis Micheesha’s house. Since last time we have made up me and her and I have apologised for selling her kids X-mas presents and she has give me the money she owes for the base I sold her.

Micheesha was having a party and some of her unsavoury ‘bitches’ were there. But I ended up having a good night, getting a laugh telling them about when I was a kid
mocking up Children In Need forms and going out of the neighbourhood to get unsuspecting grannies who didn’t know me to sponsor me for a tenner telling them it was going toward paying for the defence fund of a 6yr old girl from Africa up in court for being a witch and facing the death penalty. When I told some of Micheesha’s bitches about all the coin I made this one, dumb as a toaster, figured I’d still be a money bags.

Hawr, Hawr, Hawr

Some way through the early hours, coming down from the e’s, this bitch took a fancy to Party Time and ended up giving me a blowjob in the toilets while she had her finger up his hole caressing his prostate. Suffice to say, result were messy.

Yeh, a good night.

Murky

2011-02-23T03:21:00.011Z

I’ve had a month of it. To go into it, the real nitty-gritty, would be too a traumatic thing for me – to draw it all out like I usually do with that verbose purple prose may bring a hallucinatory bent to my remembering of the incidents below – and that, having smoked a joint too, I don’t think I could handle.

- The first thing that sprouts in my remembering - in the here and now – is
that my cousin Party Time is in town. Party Time has arrived from lands afar – a clucker, heavy meth smoker, Party Time’s what he calls himself – no wracking my brains for an alias this time --- He’s called after a hustler in Iceberg Slim’s autobiography, Pimp. He tells me he read it in school and it didn’t so much inspire as convince. Convince him off his natural abilities to pursue a colder, eviler path through life.
- So he’s been kipping on my floor the last 3 weeks. The first week, half of it, he told me I’d to give him my bed! I am 5 foot 4. He nearly six and a half. He
gets in and plunks his bags down and this is the first thing he says: Give me your bed…looming over me like a tree – so I did…and the cunt never rose for 3 and a half days. The fourth day he got up to take a big shite and I stuck a nailboard under the duvet sheet. I hid behind the door and he comes lankily dawdling back, flops down, and while there’s still a millimetre of air between him and my trap – like he has almost pre-cog’d it – his body jack-knifes, spins, lands on the edge of the bed, wounding slightly, and he rolls off.
- He chased me and I ran into the toilet and locked the door behind me. I stayed in there for 4 and a half hours until he kicked the door in. He bounded over like Lou Ferringo, grabbed me by the belt buckle and the scruff of the neck, turned me upside down, and shook me like people empty bins. Then he banged my head a couple of time off the floor, like he was trying to put a hole in it, then took his hands away and left me there, freestanding on my head, then I tilted and fell on my arse and I sat up and couldn’t speak.
- This lasted an hour. Since then I have been getting a numb leg, intermittently. I have been on the phone to mother about this. She tells me that she knew a man got a knock on the head once and got cancer in his leg after. She reminds me of aunt Gildae who bit her tongue then got cancer in her vocal cords and had to speak through that “robot box” ever since.
- Possibly related or not to Party Time’s arrival I have been needing to piss a lot and have been getting dizzy spells. I have been drinking a lot of coffee lately to stay on my wits against Party Time so maybe this is the reason why, but I have got it into my head that I have diabetes.
- Then Party Time stole my laptop and sold it at the Cash Converters in town.
He told me after he wanted to use the money he got to buy components to make up a meth lab in my place. So next time he went out to get smokes I locked him out. He came back a couple of days later with a broken nose and I took pity on him and let him back in with the proviso he follows my rules: That he goes out and makes some coin; that how he’s going to do this is he employs his bad nature and goes and turns out our Uncle’s hooker pal Izzy Hoyland. I ask him if he’s still the money he got off the laptop and he says most of it. I tell him he’ll have to use it to overhaul her as she’s missing two front teeth. He agrees. I get him to agree that with the first bit of coin he makes he can buy me a new laptop. Then it dawns on me he can run his operation out of here and I can charge him rent. I then get starry ideas about setting up sex stings with DUP politicians, with little cameras behind two-way mirrors. My mind then murks on child-sex stings, like in Kincora, and the political-sway potential it would hold – I think: Danny Pongo – Political Blackmailer – but pull back…and know, in this backwater, a prostitute sting would be enough.

As long as Party Time is still here posts will be few and far between. If he sees I’m writing about our operation he may just upend me in some wet cement and keep it that way. His strength is too great for Danny Pongo, and his wisdom too kaleidoscopic.

PS I have been going to earlier posts to listen to the music there, and some videos don’t appear, instead saying – Third Party User Violation. Video Terminated – or words to that effect. So I am wondering: am I the third party who has used the video causing it to be terminated? If so I’m not going to risk posting any more videos, which is why there is not one today.