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

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...  

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

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!!!

Trying To Make A Pound Out Of 15p

When I arrived home I could’ve nearly cried when I realised that change I dropped at the foot of the Moses’ tramp was all that was between me and the grave, save for bad fortune.

I raided my cupboards looking for something I could throw together for my dinner, but all I could finds, behind an empty box of Weetabix, was a half-a-tube of Jaffa Cakes. I forlornly returned to my living room and sat eating them and watching the news on the tele while trying to feed little corners to Boke the Cat, who turned his nose up at them.

Well then the little cunt could starve. And this situation just wouldn’t do.

So I had to make a pound out of 15p, as a variation on the song, and in order to get this done I went cap in hand to Bosco’s to buy some of his base.

- Danny Pongo, with his tail between his legs. Never thought I’d see the day, - said Bosco, laughing at me.
- Have the cops been here looking for me, Bosco? I asked.
- No. But don’t think I’ll be lying for you when they do show up. I’ll have you on possession with intent to supply if you tell them about me making it up here. Consider it the touts’ M.A.D, or Mutually Assured Destruction.
- I know what M.A.D means, Bosco, - wishing I could do a bit of mutually assured destruction on his hole, then by effect mine, but only so it meant fucking the little cunt up.
- How much you want?
- an ounce.
- on strap?
- yes. Gonna sell it with a 5er mark-up on a 10ers worth. Gotta get some coin together.
- I hear ye, - said the little weasel, casting himself in his own little hard-luck story.

I reckoned My Sis’ Micheesha would take most of it off my hands and the rest I’d sell on in little wraps here and there.

Micheesha’s house as usual was a fucking tip. Dogs’ shit in various sizes, shapes and colours sat like islands amidst a sea of kids’ toys. There was not an inch of carpet you could see.
- Micheesha, fuckin dogs’ shite’ll make your kids go blind if they touch it, - I warned.
- I’m getting a woman in to clean the day, Danny, fuckin’ drap it! What you wan’ anyway?
- Need to shift a bit of base. You interested?
- aye. Show us...

Micheesha’s a very thorough and particular little bitch and has not a crumb of trust for me, Danny Pongo, her little brother. So we racked up a couple of lines me and her so she could test it, and for the following hour and a half I’d to sit and listen to her list a number of grievances she held against every one of her exes, (not a modest number, men and women): the beatings, the rough anals, the thieving, the drug addicts, the alcos, - a compiling of miseries heaped upon miseries reamed off with an autistic’s fastidious attention to memory and a poet’s vividness, all her own terrible memorial from then till now.

After I got fed up with her talking I made my excuses and left, and she hit me with it at the door.
- I’ll get that sold this week. You hold out till then till I get you the dough?
- fuckin’ hell, Micheesha! No! I’m flat broke. Gimmie a score, and I’ll be back for the rest on Wednesday.
- don’t have a fuckin’ score, Danny!
- oh yeah? Well what were you gonna pay the fuckin’ cleaner with then? – I said, snatching her bag of the hall table.
- gimme that back you dirty wee cunt, - she said chasing me down her front path as I turned her purse over in the garden.
- there we go. 20 quid, - I said taking it from the pile of paper and coins. See you Wednesday.
- what am I gonna pay the cleaner with?! Danny? Danny! – she yelled as I walked away.

Life Isn't Everything

Sometimes you can get nothing done without having a good wank first. So it was the other morning when before I could get my story straight, re the incident at Kimba’s granny’s house, I had to pull one out in Bosco’s hotpress all over his lovely towels.

I have been hiding out here in Bosco’s for the last week or two in order to evade the law who I’m in no doubt will be looking for me on suspicion of serious assault, including the serious sexual assault on granny.

In composing my story I was reminded of a time in my dim and distant past, around the time of my childhood youth, when I asked my gran, us both standing in a packed butcher’s, if I could rape her when we got home. I was not really privy to the meaning of the word then, and coming out of my daydream reminisce shuddering at this fact, I began to get the impression ‘Song For Guy’ was providing the soundtrack somehow, when I turned to discover it was coming from Bosco’s portable radio, which he’d brought with him into the kitchen.

It turns out Bosco’s turned his hand to making base speed to sell “to anybody that wants it, the kiddies included”, in order to get himself out of the financial hole he’s found himself in.
- But, Bosco! – I begged, - what about your capacity as a cobbler?
- There’s been a real downturn in that market, Danny. A real downturn.
- well I guarantee you, old chum, that downturn is going to change direction.
- really, which way.
- to an upturn, you fool! With the coming financial flagellation people will not be going out to buy new shoes, they will be turning to you to fix the ones they’ve got. Why, you should get onto it now, start an advertising campaign.
- umm, I don’t know. Base sells pretty well!
- well whatever you like, Bosco. Anyway I need you to get my story straight. I need you to tell the cops, when they inevitably come round that I’ve been shacked up with you this past while.
- Jesus! No! That’s perjury to begin with.
- not if you just tell that to the cops.
- yes but what happens if it gets to court? It’ll be perjury then!
- if you don’t do it Bosco I’ll tell em you’re manufacturing speed in here. You’re a messy cunt as well, I wouldn’t trust you to clean my arse, never mind get rid of all the traces of base in this place. You don’t do it and I’ll tout on you, pigs might even gimmie immunity from what I did for it.
- Danny, you wouldn’t turn in an old pal like that? Especially one that’s out on his arse?
- Bosco, you wouldn’t tell a wee white lie for a pal? Especially one who’s done nothing wrong?

Bosco shrugged sadly and his face crumpled and set in a firm and stonelike worried grimace that still has not shifted yet.

Later we sampled some of Bosco’s Base, as he’s calling it. Some short time after that we both found ourselves perched on the edge of his dirty brown bog, filling it rapidly with our watery stool, which in both our cases had the consistency of just-cooked stew.

It was good base as it turned out; both by the fact that it made us need to shite so quick and by the fact that both of us, sitting back to back there in his chilly morbid bathroom, were talking a mile-a-minute and couldn’t have stopped even if we’d’ve liked to.
- what you wanna do? Asked Bosco through chattering teeth.
- let’s go out for a spin in your motor, - said I though mine.
- where to?
- dunno, let’s just drive and see where the road takes us.

So off we went through the city centre at 2 in the morning, just as the snow began to fall, down through Shaftsbury Square where all the chip-sniffers from the M-Club and all the hippies from Lavery’s were staring to emerge out onto the street to huddle round under the neon store fronts which were made less ugly and more Christmassy in the snow.

I spat a big chemically speed gob at a languorous hippy that stepped out in front of the car, and Bosco put this track on as it felt like a good soundtrack to everything going on around him, he said.

Lube And Poppers A Must

I came home this morning – entering the house a little sheepishly after noticing the massively pregnant figure of Kimba floating there behind the frosted glass of our front door – standing side on, looking, due to the frosted glass, like a comma spontaneously combusting, rendered by Edvard Munch.

I sat at our rickety kitchen table and slowly moved my eyes over all the phone numbers and tags people had meticulously scraped in with a knife or squeaked on with a felt tip. To break the ice I asked Kimba to make me a bowl of cornflakes.
- Let me smell your dick first, - she said.
- Nah, - I said. – What for?
She got down on all fours and crawled under the table. She got my zip between her teeth and pulled it down.
- Just tryin’ to make it sexy, babe, - she said.
She pulled my dick out and held it in the palm of her hand for a second or two. She breathed in and out in quick succession then smelt my dick.
- You’re dick smells like shit, - she said.
- Dunno how that could be, - I said, trying determinedly to take my mind off things the way terrorists under interrogation used to do in the ‘70s, by focusing on something else in the room – in my case trying to memorise the mobile numbers on the table.
- Who you been sleepin’ with, Danny?
- No one. I’ve been in Bogdan’s these last few days. –

Little did she know, I thought connivingly, that me and Bogdan, when we’d no fanny to hand, would take turns on each other in what he liked to call the ‘Daisy Chain’, whereby I would anal him (or vice versa) while giving him a reach-reach around wank, while he would be reaching behind (a reach behind, I suppose) wanking me off, while I, with my one free hand would be rimming myself and trying to reach my male g-spot, while he, with his one free hand, would be left to tickle his own balls. It was an invention we both conceived of one night we were doing coke and had the horn a weaker.

Lube and poppers a must.

I had thought I’d sprayed myself with Bogdan’s Lynx before I’d left, but obviously it hadn’t done the trick. Kimba popped her head between my legs and looked up at me tearily. I scrambled for an answer to the questions those moist anime eyes of hers screamed out. But, instead, being the jinny I am, I chose escape to being caught out so I told her that she needed to get out from under the table and sit up on a chair to hear what I had to tell her. Which was, the ordeal she was going to have to face at the hands of Mistress.

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Bosco The Anti-Christ

‘...No, if there’s some vestige of self-knowledge I’ve gained from these last few awful years its that I’m too great a coward to successfully masquerade as the anti-christ while REALLY intending to bring TRUE harmony to the world, all right under the nose of the Annunaki channelled through our NWO masters. I’m too much of a coward to do that.’

This was Bosco talking in Botanic Park. We’re sitting on a bench (cos I can’t get up if I lay out on the grass too long like the trendies (who’re really only hoping to get their bake on the tele in UTV Live’s light-hearted ‘Here’s The Summer Comin’’ non-report they do when it gets a bit warm)) and taking in the sun.

Through his investigations into the Scientologists he has come to realise they are but a facet of a terrible, genocidal, diabolical world autocracy that’s soon to emerge.

And as is Bosco’s way he feels he has to do something about it, like masquerade as the anti-christ, while being in reality one of the goodies.

‘But,’ I said to him, ‘what happens when the real anti-christ turns up then? He’ll kick your hippy ass. And the other side of the coin is what happens if you thwart his attack, rule the world in harmony for a year or two, and then Jesus, or (wouldn’t that be a turnip for the books) L.Ron Hubbard descends in a spaceship piloted by
John Travolta, and gets jealous of your achievements. ‘You might end up turning a good man bad through envy (in the case of Jesus anyway).’

Bosco said he’d go away and think about scaling back his plans. I advised guerrilla warfare.

PS:--- When you type in NWO it automatically rearranges the letters to NOW. New World Order NOW! That Microsoft – I knew Bill Gates was a bad’un...look down here where he says (from 2.20 onwards) how he wants to wipe out billions using his “new vaccines” all to stem the (fraudulent) dangers of CO2. Who said nerds were gentle softies at heart?