It’s turned out I’ve had to tell Kimba I love her as a month ago she told me she were up the duff. As she won’t get rid of it (“What you wanna do?” I asked her – as per what Chris Rock said you should say when your girl tells you she’s expecting your sperm mutant (i.e. that is defo not ask her IF she’s going to do this thing/that thing: i.e. get rid of it)) and as I can’t do a runner as I live in a Housing Executive gaff and have nowhere else to go, I have had to do all the things an expectant father should do/say to the swelly bellied mother of his imminent child, by doing everything and all up to and including: telling her I love her when she is boking her ring up and I stand there by the bathroom door when she is down on all fours, her head stuck right down in the bowl like a fat thing that can’t get through a hole, flinching with each dry heave that wobbles out of her bloated frame. One night a week ago she turned to me and said:
“I feel so shitey I’m gonna take that as you being genuine for once in your rotten, smelly life, Danny Pongo. It’s all I can hold onto. I’m starving, cos you have no job and the brew’s fuckin me about on my benefits and we’ve hardly enough money to feed ourselves never mind the wee life that’s growing inside me –“
“Tumour,” I corrected. “Just like a tumour it feeds off you in utero. Just like a tumour is a parasite so is the ‘little miracle’ growing inside you. But unlike a tumour it will continue to siphon your resources: your monetary, physical, spiritual and kinetic energy well after it leaves your body and for 18 years into the future at least. And don’t think it will expand your horizons in any way, shape or form. Socially you might think it will, but the only other people you will ever meet for the foreseeable are other parents who are freaks, who are slavish disciples in the cult of their one and only lil baby. That is the class of people you will meet: People with their own portable shrine, their little gathering of immutable matter, amazing putty flesh, a plastersine avatar – a thing they’d kill, steal or suicide for.....and you’ll be one of them.”
She began to cry, bokey snatters hanging from her nose in big bandy drools long and thick as shoe laces. She were swaying on all fours and groaning and I poked her in the shoulder and nudged her a little and she cooped sideward leftwards and fell onto the tiled floor of the bathroom and lay still, her arms and legs all folded in and gathered in at her middle. She put me in mind of a comatose/stunned/dead animal. I felt bad and put the seat down on the toilet. I sat down on it, folded my legs and had rolled a smoke. I tilted my head back and blew the smoke out languorously and decided these sorts of moments I'd call my Hamlet Cigar Moments only to then feel sorry for myself when I realised a roll-up was a poor substitute for a Hamlet Cigar and, with this hard luck impasse (in the shape of a little baby) it would be ages before I could afford even one of them...
Showing posts with label Fred West. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fred West. Show all posts
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
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.
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.
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