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.
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…”
