People Take My Advice: If You Love Someone, Don't Think Twice

I came and the little Christian girl’s head ceased to bob, almost instinctively, and instantaneously I felt great guilt and an immense personal revelation dawned:

I couldn’t live without my Kimba, melted off face and all.

I sat and listened to this track, sitting by the record player weeping and stroking scabey, smelly Boke the Cat, who lay all curled up on my lap.

After I cum in the Christian girl’s mouth (whose name was Cleo) I give her my copy off Physical Graffiti (for her trouble) and told her to fuck off.

I decided I needed to get out of the house and so went off in my car slowly, zigzagging up the icy ungritted street I live on knocking wing mirrors off the other cars as I went.

I was headed toward the Lower Ormeau to the Rose & Crown pub to see if my pal Sweeney was there cos really I was sick of the other two (Bogdan &Bosco) finally and enough.

Having parked my car in the entrance of the local library, as I was afraid to take my motor any further down the particular street it was on as it looked even shinier and icier than my own street, I made my way gingerly along then to the Rose & Crown, making sure not to slip.

I was pleased to find Sweeney was in the pub then with his sister Gertie, who was on the G&T’s by the look of things. I snuck up behind him and did that tap-one-shoulder-loom-over-the-other-shoulder swticheroo and frightened the giddy cunt then when he turned to see it was me standing there.

So I joined Gertie and him for a drink and ended up sitting there all afternoon with them crying into my drink and telling them how lovely and sweet Kimba was. Gertie sweetly and tenderly stroked my leg and I played with her hair and twiddled her dangly Pat Butcher earrings.


Sweeny, who doesn’t like talk about emotions and stuff, tried to change the subject and talk about his war against the Scientologists. I humoured him for a bit then got bored and decided to instead listen to Gertie talk about how complicated William Burroughs is and how reading his books is like trying to do a Rubik’s Cube blind.

She was very scatty, Gertie. She somehow got onto how the other night she’d a dream her head were stuck in a toilet bowl for what seemed like years with only her nose above water so she could breathe.

After what seemed like years, as I’ve said, the face of Julian Simmons appeared above her. He give one of his sinister camp-paedophile grins then he turned and his fat, pale ginger arse planted itself down just inches from her face, blocking out all the light like an eclipse, and he proceeded to shit all over her, in her mouth and everything.

I asked her what she thought it meant and she said she didn’t know.

After a while it got obvious that she’d’ve bucked me, Gertie, but I still pined so hard for Kimba that I didn’t think I’d be up to it.

All I had was this song running through my head on a loop:

So I put it on on the jukebox and walked outta there.

I Flatter And Am Flattered Too Easily

Last night I’d a dream I was taking a piddle and my bell-end fell off. I stood and looked at it for the longest time when this little tiny arm popped out of the hole, elbow first, does this big stretch, then the arm, this whole arm, begins to grow in size so it was eventually a lot bigger than I was, by around 6 times. Then it begins to wank ME off till I swell up like someone on steroids and boke up about two buckets’ worth of cum.

Then through no rhyme or reason (as is so common in dreams) I am transported to a time in the not so distant future when the Lights Have All Gone Out. I am sitting in my kitchen reading 'Witchcraft and Black Magic' by Montague Summers.

I have a feeling I am going to start some sort of After The Bomb Fell type cult. By me on the floor lies Kimba her stomach hollowed out and filled with water with goldfish swimming about in it. Out the window I can see UFOs, many of them, dart about firing proton torpedoes back and forth engaged in some epic dogfight. One of the UFOs is hit and falls at speed toward my house. The fear and shock defibrillates me awake.

Downstairs I can hear this song playing:

I get up and go downstairs going toward the music which sounds like it is coming from somewhere other than the living room, - which is where I would expect it to come from as that’s where I have my record player.

But it is coming from the kitchen so I go in there and the turntable is sitting on the table, record spinning. A letter is propped up against it. The letter reads:

“Danny,

I am so sad in this relationship. As the song says: Love don’t live here anymore.

You have taken me for granted for the last time and you have betrayed me for the last time. I know you are in a homosexual relationship with one or more of your friends. At the same time I know I have cheapened your love for me by cheating on you, but this is usually in response to your infidelity.

I refuse to reduce and sully myself any longer in reaction to your dishonesty.

I’ll see you around,

Kimba
x”

I sat and thought on this all afternoon. At some point between Loose Women and Neighbours I went to get my weed, which I keep behind in the breadbin in the kitchen. I reached back there and I took out my little coin bag (the ones you get in the bank, what I get my deals in) and found it empty except for a little post-it note folded in half, which read:

“I have flushed your weed down the toilet. Kimba ”

The remainder of the afternoon then I spent devising ways to get revenge on her. I decided on getting incense sticks, dipping them in glue, then sticking them into Boke the cat’s fortnight old litter tray (sure as fuck I didn’t give a fuck about that cat). I would put them in there, good and deep, twist em round a bit to make sure they got covered in the gritty litter she uses. I would do a dozen incense sticks this way. Then I would put them in a little box and print up a label which read “Nature’s Incense” or something and stick it on the box. Then I would send this little box to Kimba’s Satanic Cultist adoptive parents and attach a note saying it were from her for their anniversary, which I knew were week after next.

Then...out-of-the-blue...I realised I’d grown attached to the peculiar bitch and I couldn’t bear to let her go. And so I sat down to write my own letter begging for her to come back home. Back into my arms where she belonged. But the first steps taken in drafting such a heartfelt appeal were bolstered by the plagiarised lines of others...and so I wrote:

“...and regarding my infidelity I have but only myself to blame, sweetheart. I flatter and am flattered too easily.* But the taxing way of adjusting to all the thoughts that you reveal, only incites me to motion well that’s the crux of your appeal...**"

* Richard Burton in a letter to Liz Taylor.

** Mike Nesmith – Wax Minute: