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

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.  

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

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:

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

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…”

Forgive Everybody And Remember

I ran out of all my money today at the same time I realised my motor had been sitting up there in that multi-storey car park in town for so many weeks (two), probably encased in ice and snow like some modern art resemblance and now it would probably never start again.

So I yet again returned to Micheesha’s looking my money. And if she didn’t have it, the slippery little poisoned eel, I would wreak a vengeance.

I had to go into town to get a bus to her’s. On the way to the bus I nearly went on my hoop twice on real slippery shiny patches of ice, - made so slippery thus dangerous by the fact they were the result of leaking gutters from the buildings all around, dripping all manner of shite and sewerage down onto the footpath to collect in big pools to then freeze in the -10 climate today.

3 old women went down like they’d been shot by Nazi sharpshooters on D-Day. Straight onto their backs. The first two were attended to quickly and graciously by passersby. And in those cases I would’ve done my bit there if it were required. The last old doll I saw falling though, she cracked her head on a jutting out brick from a building. Cracked her head like an Easter Egg and blood poured out everywhere and I being so mortified couldn’t even make believe it were syrup pouring out of like a Cadbury’s Crème Egg (and it were red instead of white anyway).

So I crossed the street and turned the corner, and was glad to find the bus to Micheesha’s was just about to take off. I was glad because if I’d’ve stopped to help the old doll I would’ve missed it. So it was a good thing I ignored her and a sort of inverted evil fate that allowed me to continue my mission.

Again at Micheesha’s the bitch stands there, shoulders flexed. Entry blocked, shoulders deep, upper half bouncing slowly from side to side off either side of the doorframe like a speedometer in flux.
- where’s my money, cunt.
- I don’t have it. I only have what I have. And you can’t take it off me! It’s Christmas!
- I’m gettin my fuckin dough today. I’ve no food for me nor the cat. I can’t get my motor outta the fuckin multi-storey in town. I’m fucked Micheesha.
- dunno how you’re fucked, Danny, cos I’m nat givin em out mate. As in I don’t give a fuck. Nat one. And I saw you comin’ up the path and I called Stupid Peter (her ‘partner’) and his brothers. So I suppose in that case you are fucked, Danny. And you will be by them!
In response to this sisterly petulance I kicked her right in the hoof (the vagina) and went booting into her house. Before I could get to the living room she grabbed my ankle (she were on the floor winded at this point) and pulled at my trouser leg imploringly.
- Please, Danny. What are you doing? – she wheezed. - Please don’t. Think of the kids! Here, - she wheezed some more while getting to her feet and handing me a tub of green face paint. – rub this on your face and put this woolly hat on and your eyes are all glassy and red so that’s good and go in there and tell em you’re The Grinch and you’re here to steal their prezzies cos I know that’s what you’re going to do ain’t it? but more than that: you wanna keep the FANTASY of Christmas alive for em Danny, don’t ye?
- I’m gonna steal em and sell em, yeah. Cos I gotta you silly bitch. But yeh to the other thing, too.
- right then, - she whispered, forlornly.

So I went in there and stamped all over the toys and dogshit and scared the kids half-to-death.
- I’m The Grinch, yahh, - I went.
They squealed.
- I’m The Grinch, yahh! Yahh! And I’ve come to take all your prezzies from under the tree cos you’re good-for-nothing mother ain’t paid her drug debts so now she can’t pay Santa for your toys. So I’m the Grinch and I gotta take them.
- No! – they screamed. – No! Please Don’t!

But I did and that’s all there was to it.

And later at home after another nice warm & tingly act of onanism it finally dawned on me that always, without fail, after I pull one out, I like to listen to a good tune. So I thought I’d create a Facebook page called ‘wank:tune’ then realised I couldn’t cos I don’t have an account.

Happy x-mas to one and all!

And here’s that tune I heard, one of empowerment and defiance, my gift from me to you:

Baby, I Have Good Intentions - Cos Breaking Hearts Just Ain't My Game

Yesterday (Sunday) afternoon I took myself of for a dander around Belfast city centre. I must say, I don’t think there is a more depressing city centre in Western Europe than a Belfast city centre on a Sunday afternoon.

Though every corner I turned gave me reason to count my blessings. Onto Fountain Lane where a poor Romanian sat crosslegged plunking away on an old accordion he couldn't play, and which wasn't tuned anyway. Then to Castle Street where an organic (read white/home grown) tramp sat with a skinny dog shivering in the sharp May breeze. He weakly held up a Styrofoam cup from McDonald's, mumbling the same two words, 'spare change' like a mantra to the uncaring passing bastards.

Used to be there were a lot of freaks and tramps wandered Belfast city centre. Gerry the scabey faced alco, with green weeping scabs running along the bottoms of his deep creviced wrinkles like rocks on a seabed adding a topological feel to his haggard countenance.

There is still Cyril on his bike, and from each handle bar hangs a Tesco or a Sainsbury’s bag stuffed full of other plastic bags rolled up tight into balls. Bogdan reckons it could be some type of push bike ballast he has going on.

I thought about getting myself a bike, though I am afraid of being clipped by a passing bus or a yahoo in his 4x4 (I hate those cunts).

Other cunts I hate are those fuckrags with their personalised number plates. I once saw a man drive along in a Volvo sporting a personalised number plate. On a Volvo. At least put it on a Ferrari or some other cock-motor where’s it’s completely fitting (like a glittery accessory complementing an equally glittery and grotesque ensemble.) Putting it on a Volvo’s like giving a basketball to a midget.

When Kimba came back into my life I thought that it’d be nice, that I’d enjoy the company. For so long I’d been sitting all alone on my sofa willing myself to see recognisable shapes in the random plaster smudges on my wall, comforting myself with the flakey notion this was a sign the universal consciousness was sending me messages of positive encouragement – this is how barren and desolate the landscape of my life was. I was going stir crazy. It got to a point that that oft thought sentiment materialised: I’d love a bit of company. . .But I have now realised that that phrase should come with the proviso that it really depends on who’s company you mean.

Kimba just won’t fuck up. Between her prolonged paranoid ramblings about chemtrails and Mad Otis’s scatty and aggrieved declarations of war on any and all I am scratching for silence like a man hanging of a ledge grasps for grip. Kimba is also insisting I declare my love for her. I tell her it is too early for that kind of thing and she, in response, has stopped my bumming rights. Saying that, I still get to ball her. Feeding her face isn’t the only type of stuffing Kimba requires, the fat horny cunt.

She mutters, between talk of nanoparticles being introduced into our system via cereals, and the ghost of JFK, that she is going to bring a pal of hers over, a wee spide called Pinky. She wants Pinky to be in a threesome with me and her. I told her I was not averse to this in principal, but that I would have to see a picture of Pinky first to see if he was handsome or not. I think she is a little bit annoyed by this. It is my feeling she wanted me to feel threatened and jealous so’s I’d finally tell her I love her, a thing I’m not much good at anyway, saying the word ‘love’. But, when the time does come when my hand is forced I think I will play her this song – which says things about commitment a lot more succinctly than I ever could/would...

Monkey The Dog Part3

So...yes...I estimate I was up that tree for 2 hours or so. After a time I was starting to get weak and faint. I didn’t know if I was just going to fall asleep or pass out and die from acute hypothermia. I thought to myself that if it were to be the latter I’d be forever attached to that tree – my arms wrapped round the branch tightly. No one would be able to remove me and at Halloween time the local Portavogian children would come and throw all the unwanted sweets they’d got trick or treating at my wrinkled yet otherwise perfectly preserved frozen corpse.

Below me the dog was still ceaselessly circling. I began to decide to myself that this was having some sort of hypnotic affect on me, like staring into an ever-turning spiral. I started to wonder if it were me clinging to that tree or if I were the tree be clung to. My Buddhaistic surmisings were to be short lived though when I heard a whistling approach from behind me. I thought of Omar from the Wire and played on the notion of him finding himself in backwater Ulster Portavogie to collect on a drug debt.

The whistling man approached and the dog finally stopped circling. The dumb animal was dizzy: woozy and stumbling; and boked up in the long grass around the tree.
“Monkey. Monkey you stupid animal. What are you doing?”
The dog whimpered back.
“That dog should be put down!” I yelled. “Or if not put down constrained by a strong chain 24 hours a day! It chased me up this tree!”
“We do keep him chained up,” said the farmer whose looks were a cross between a Thomas Hardy prototype and the Simian curves of a young Fred West.

“He loosed hamsalf from has chain this marnan” he said out of a slit of a mouth – an old clay pipe firmly stuck in the corner between stiff chapped lips. “He’s an heat. It as impossible ta becalm him – unless I am ta assuage has urgings mahsalf.”
With this he smacked Monkey’s bum and sat him down. “Right Monkey mah boy – time ta arouse ya!” The farmer took Monkey’s limp little maggot dick and started to tickle it into life. In a matter of minutes Monkey’s dick was long hard and purple. And it was very big. It looked like he’d been stabbed in the stomach with the thin end of a snooker cue and had had it driven right up inside him, leaving only the fat end jutting out.

Once the farmer had him going Monkey started to spasm and he promptly came like a fireman’s hose. The length of his jizzim stream at full capacity was as long as 3 30cm school rulers back to back.
“Right young lad,” said the farmer. “You can get down fram thar now. I’ve becalmed him.”

So I did. Get down out of the tree.

Getting back into Belfast on the bus, the street lights curved along the Lagan lit up under the Albert Bridge, this song came on the radio. Balls’shaft ain’t NYC, and not even the combination of these epic production values, or my optimistic imagination, could convince me otherwise.

Scientologists Tried To Steal My Hat With Their Wind

I see the Scientology Mengeles have put up a banner ad over there. So in order to balance out the ‘info war’ I will post here a picture of a victim of Scientologist dogma – that is, withholding from the sick in mind and/or body ‘evil’ pharmaceutical drugs.



This poor unfortunate here was Lisa McPherson. She was 32 at the time of her sad death. She was underweight and severely dehydrated when she was found. Her body was covered in bruises and bug bites. How this state of affairs came to be was that some time earlier, a week or two before, she was involved in a car accident, which she walked away from with minor injuries. But she did however proceed to go batty, stripping off all her clothes and dancing around. The doctors at the hospital she was brought to said there was nothing wrong physically as a result of the crash, but that she’d need to be psychologically reviewed. This is where her handlers from the Church of Scientology, of which she was a member, stepped in. As their religion didn’t believe in psychiatry they were going to take care of her themselves. They took her to a hotel (that they owned) and kept her in solitary for ‘Introspection Rundown’. Leading her to deteriorate into the sorry state seen and described above.



I think to myself, with a little shudder, how the lure of Scientology with its talk of aliens and galactic war would have been something that might’ve had an impression on my young/teenage mind, captivated as it was by tales of alien races living under Denver Airport and secret gov./et deals. I am glad the boggle-eyed freaks hadn’t set up shop in Belfast, like they have now on Gt. Victoria Street, when I was 13-16.



My pal Bosco, a cobbler, took a great interest in investigating their operation in Belfast after he saw this Tom Cruise video.



I told him I wasn’t afraid of them and that we should just walk in there some afternoon and ask to take one of their personality tests. He told me I was:- incorrect if I thought we could just waltz in there like a pair whose arse don’t touch the seat. They are dangerous and ruthless and above all well funded. We will have to think of a greater ruse if we are to infiltrate and really reach the belly of the beast re The Scientologists --- this is the way he talks.

So we decided on doing a little standoffish reconnaissance. One afternoon, when heavy rain was forecast, we marched across the Albert Bridge toward Gt. Victoria Street. I had that Jerry Fielding score from the big shootout finale at the end of The Wild Bunch in my head. I felt like William Holden.

We reached the top end of Gt. Victoria Street where their Headquarters is. We stood across the street from it hanging back on the forecourt of the old disused BP. Bosco had a novelty Spiderman telescope his cousin got off the front of a comic and give to him for the mission. At that range it wasn’t too bad. We could see clearly through the first floor window above that old record store (?) that used to be there. It looked like there wasn’t too much activity so we went to cross the road when a gust of wind flew by tearing my lucky baseball cap from my head. I call it lucky cos when I have it on playing online poker I win as much as I lose. When I don’t wear it I can’t get a single good hand. So I blindly dashed into the middle of the road after it and retrieved it from the white line where it had rolled to. I narrowly avoided being hit by a Virgin TV van and when I returned safely to the pavement I tripped and cut my hand. When I gathered myself and more firmly attached lucky cap to my head Bosco nodded in the direction of the window. Standing there was a very plain looking nerd sporting a bowl haircut with ambitions to be bouffant. I feel, even now (this happened 2 months ago) that this geek had exercised some degree of telekinesis upon me – tossing my hat off my head. That or the Scientologists have weather control technology causing the wind.

So far we have no future plan of action. I might suggest to Bosco that we masquerade as aliens from that sci-fi novel they’ve got out. But that would come with the risk of them thinking you were the real deal and assigning to you buckets of responsibility.

But there is a tale of madness beyond their weirdo mantle. A journalist I know tells me that when you roll past that place late at night and they’re having their meetings, all the cars outside are Mercs and Jags etc. its his feeling they’re the New Freemasons. I’ve heard the first thing they do when they set up in a new town is flatter the local police force. They organise nice big banquets for all the bigwig rozzers and generally work on currying favour with the cops. Then when some youngster stands outside one of their more fancy buildings they’ve got in London holding up a placard saying Scientology is a cult the cops swoop in and sweep him up – telling him what he’s doing is illegal. There’s a report about it somewhere but I can’t be fucked finding it. I know one thing though, they’re not to be fucked with, the Scientologists.