Fuck The #MTVEMAs

Was in two minds today whether to dander into town (one thing I haven't mentioned is that my motor's packed in). But I did as I reckon being a man of limited means and fewer prospects I will never leave the Bellshite, nor, in my lifetime, get to see the denizens herein getting their two-tone psyches so lavishly catered to by such a grand American extravaganza – the last big American extravaganza of its magnitude probably being WW2.

I thought to myself, approaching the giant luminous blue-tit biodome of the Victoria Square Shopping Centre, that really things were no busier – just as many feet on the ground – as any other Saturday afternoon – but there was a difference – a difference evidenced in the deep, swirling glazed eyes of all – and I started to realise that every conversation I were in earshot of were to do with the fucking #MTVEMAs. Old and young alike carried themselves like they were the protagonist in some NI Tourist Board ad on 'The New Emerging Belfast'.
                 

Clusters of impeccably togged up hipsters with well-sculpted hairstyles mingled between Starbucks and the Kitchen Bar – boys and girls 18-25, 25+, - The Relevant (cos this is the demographic where yer chances and spending power are at their optimum) swarming like germs and white blood cells. In amongst them all the old (anyone above aforementioned age bracket) permeated like incorporeal wraiths faintly making their presence felt in this dimension. I were one of these zombies. I staggered trough them all in my tracksuit/pajamas and my big yellow mac feeling like a refugee from some underground city come up into 'civilization'....The hair-swishing make-believe, the poise outside bars like they imagined they were gonna be surreptitiously pap-ed any minute, the boys in their shades long after the frigid sun'd gone in, the old getting lost, being, “are we going the right way” - made me (for once) relish the sight of nearly two-dozen pigs – if only to make the spot a legitimate target for the latest Provo Tribute Act...

I went down into the belly of Victoria Square, down into to the subbasement car park for a quick toke. Down there I could see right up through the crisscross of escalators, right up to the dark-tinted areola of the luminous blue-tit biodome, the capstone of this murky “shopping mecca” - and as a mecca it possesses our unmistakeable drab Ulster piety complementing perfectly Consumerism's universally dark architecture. I was struck by a vision then, a memory from my own future, or possibly that of a future incarnation, slipped from the bondage of Eternal Return that this awful place would soon house a great many number of citizens, corralled in here, the walkways and platforms and deep, voluminous square stores fulfilling their true purpose, which was to act as a 21^st century gulag --- In my vision I heard the groans and the occasional scream of the emasculated future citizen, under the yoke, body and soul, eyes leaping out, spurred by memories of criminal spectacles more grotesque, more baneful than words can tell...then these screams from the future, full of dread and suffering were replaced by the screams of the now, the present, which were full of hysteria and insane, uber-longing...

I went up the escalator gingerly, dropping down every few steps when the thing brought me too near the top. I could make out this mass of feet running – as one – from one side of the complex to the other – clad in identical trainers – they resembled in their kinetic mass the birds going round and round the Albert Bridge looking for a safe perch for the night.

Justin! Justin! - They screamed. From the car park behind me I heard a screech of tyres and imagined it was the dulcet smile-android being spirited away by his Illuminati handlers. It seems his pubescent, foamy-gashed fans had kenned this fact also, and sensed his leaving the vicinity, for they swamped the escalators (the down one AND the up one) forcing me to leap into the gutter in the middle and slide back down to the bottom like Al Pacino at the end of Carlito's Way. The harried me and knocked me as they stampeded after the limo and as they went I watched for the legal-looking ones and give them all a good groping as they whizzed by.

Another lasting impression was the amount of twats that done themselves up to resemble the famous ones, in order I reckon for them to possibly experience the blanket adoration and attention, if only for a minute or two, before the ego mosquitoes twig it isn't really the ''slab', and fuck of spitting and cursing at the trembling fame-starved cunt. For example, I saw three Lady Gagas around the place, with one of em so authentic looking she got approached by two journo looking types and a man with a proper looking press camera. When the kids got a load of this they came running too, obeying the tic-tac-toe of their celebrity obsessed minds. I, too was drawn into the maelstrom, around the outside, to see if it really was High Priestess and baby-eater Lady Gaga...but the girl opens her mouth in response to some generic questioning from the journo saying:

 - Wah??? - Fock Aff! Aye, I gat mah tackat here, so ah do! - and she pulled it outta her cleavage, that elusive (figurative) golden ticket, when one of the popster's from the rabble's arm shoots out, snatches it off her, and this wee anorexic looking bint peels of from the screaming heads, like newborn hatchlings, and takes off down the street with it bawling in a high, helium pitched tonality befitting of her weak looking little frame. 

The poor Gaga-a-like stood there, tears tripping her, till she were pushed into the wall and the hordes chased the ticket-stealer.

I remained and took a good look at Lady Gaga. On closer inspection she didn't really make the cut. She'd a load of Harp beer tins as curlers in her (well) dyed peroxide mop, but she weren't skinny or short enough, her makeup was too off-white and her left ear was askew in the fashion of a dogeared page in a book.

Where you gonna go now, - I went.

Nowhere, by lucks ahf thangs, sobsob – she went.

Wee bitch, eh?

Yup.

I took her for coffee and she took her Harp-tin rollers out and wiped off most of her makeup. She wiped her lipstick off and rummaged around in her bag for a bit then emptied it onto the table. Amongst a load of balled up tissues, keys and around a dozen jubes there were lots and lots of lipsticks. She took the tops off three of em – electric citrus, Kylie Minogue Pink, and Big Top Red. She considered them all for a bit then applied the electric citrus. She looked good.

We walked through Victoria Square the rest of the way and I spotted more of those studied celebrity doubles – the twat taking the prize most modeling himself on David Guetta so good that while going along, carrying a load of records over his shoulder, he got mobbed by a bunch of popsters looking smile-android Bieber's mobile no.. The popsters, though, on inspecting his bag of records, discovered they were no more than a bunch of cardboard squares, but not before 'Guetta' got their numbers off them promising to 'pass them on to Justin.' I wondered how many of these celeb-a-likes going around were the attention starved, starry-eyed celebrity-aspiring, and how many were possessed of murkier intentions – their resemblance to the authentically famed being the bait of these toothsome 21^st century pied pipers...

I asked Lady Gaga about this. She said, - Dunno about tha', Danny, but I tell you wha' – plenty of pink ballets in the offing the next couple of days...

We reached Corn Market where a lonesome nut were loudly positing that the whole affair was nothing more than a 'mega-ritual' a simulation of 'occult blood-sacrifice' and a nod to a kabbalistic-masonic esotericism – the teachings of which belonged to them (and them alone) running the world behind the scenes of common times.

 - Fuckin hell, - I went.

 - Realer than you know, Danny – said Lady Gaga.

 - ...And dey will stage some blood drenched bestial sex rite – they will fetishize our approaching police state with scantily clad centurions of the street...- Still the mad cunt was sporting the best Tee of the night – what took me ages to source...

I took a hold of Lady Gaga, up an alley off Linenhall St, and frigged her till she started seeping at the hoof. She wanked me to I shot it out all over her tight tigerprint one-piece then she took my arm and we walked away, and I said,

You bunkin up with me tonight, Gaga - when a little cunt came up behind us and snatched her bag with all her jubes in it...

I'd only my own busfare left to get me home, where I'd speed and my nice green from out west. When I told her I was holding she jumped at the chance to come with – and on the way back on the bus the conversation went thusly:

 - I gonna get to slice you anyway, girl? - I went.

 - Nope. No jubes neigh wuh that wee smick strokin' mah beag.

 - Yeh, baby, but you get the morning-after pill the marra?

 - That costs £30, dickhead.

 - I go halfers with you?

 - Nah. Don't trust you. What you go on you? £1.70 for thuh bus? And I won't hoave the whole £30 on me neigh I ain't got out tah work the night.

 - Shitman. How's about you say I raped you. Then you go to the cops and they'll get you a abortion for free if my seed gets fertilized....

 - She pulled this thing from her bag then. I thought it were a TV remote control at just glancing at it, - You know what this is felchy breath? Its a tazer. You try any funny business wih me the night, I'll fuckin zap ye. I'll come, smoke yer grass and huff yer speed – and what you geh out of it? Mah number.

So we went back to mine and she huffed my speed, smoked my weed and like she said, she gimmie her number – and at some point she picked this un and put it on the turntable... 

  

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.  

Aural Chemotherapy

I’ve been away for a while. Can’t specifically say why, but I can give the following scenarios, so take your pick:

a) Was in the middle of a shootout between rival drug gangs, getting nicked in the ankle by a stray round. Spent the last two weeks in hospital.

b) Sex game gone wrong with Kimba, involving a vice, a snake and a blowtorch. Spent last two weeks in the burns unit.

c) Tripped over a stray slipper left in local chippie. Broke my arm. Oul granny came back to retrieve the slipper. She leant over and laughed in my face when she saw the predicament I was in. Spent last two weeks in the fractures unit.

Ok, I’ll say. It was C. Don’t care though, still gonna tell people it was A or B.

While in hospital I got a visit by Sweeney. Sweeney has a number of hang-ups, which include, but are not limited to, germs in and around hospitals. He has a psychological 500 metre safety zone around ones that he’s approaching. On his way up the Lisburn Road he’ll don a dust mask and keep it on till he’s at least 500 metres clear of the building again when he’s left. He came in like this, with his dust mask on, wearing a pair of latex gloves. He’s generally freakapolooza when it comes to germs. Once I watched him in the reflection of my hall mirror taking a piss in my toilet. He got a bit of piss on the seat and instead of tearing off a couple of squares of bog roll he took the whole thing and dabbed it with that – then! put it back on the windowsill. And to my shame I never said anything, so perturbed was I.

Sweeney has a plan to start a band. The members he’s suggesting (Aloysius, Bogdan, Me and Kimba) cannot even play a tambourine between us. Sweeney says he’s aware of this, but that this band would be all about the ideas and the sound. Sound not music, he said. He asked for name suggestions. Aural Chemotherapy I suggested less than enthusiastically. Then, with more helpfulness, I said to him that if he were interested in a band that just was about ideas and sound we should start a clown troupe instead. He was not impressed.

Sweeney wanted to start a band before when we were in school. He wanted it to be a three piece, me, him and Joe Kelly. He was inspired by Nirvana and thought he were Kurt Cobain reincarnated. I’d to tell him then that this would have been an impossibility, whatever crackpot new age bullshit he were reading up on, as Cobain blew his ice-cream-for-brains all over the place 14 years AFTER he was born. Our band’s name back then was Infanticide. It were my idea that we print up T-shirts with the face of Dunblane massacre’er Thomas Hamilton on the front (on a side note, Dunblane had many weird facts attached to it, such as Hamilton being close to George Robertson (one of Blair’s poodles during the Kosovo war) and the files on Dunblane have been sealed for 500 yrs or something – plus Hamilton was a high up Mason who knew loads of political figures). The (later to be found out as) paedophile Mr Sadie pulled me up on the band T-shirt and give me a good spanking with his slipper. Which led me onto another brief peninsula of memory, which was how one day in his French class I had my headphones in with the pin that goes into the walkman in my mouth. I was bopping away.

“What’re you at, Pongo, you fucking halfwit?”

I took the pin out of my mouth and said “dancing to the voices in my head sir.”

“Don’t try and affect schizoid airs with me, you haven’t the talent for it.” How right he turned out to be.