You Clipped My Wings Before I Learnt to Fly. Unspoiled. Unspoken. I've Outgrown That Fucking Lullaby

Lady Gaga hasn't called back yet. Don't think she will.

Party Time scored for us some nice yellow coloured speed today off this jittery Polish chap who looked like he'd Cerebral Palsy or like a real bad series of tics the way his head popped off to the side or the way his frame jerked..

He picked us up in that lay-by by along the Lagan Towpath, before you get to Annadale Flats, which is somewhere I used to live. This little lay-by is well of the road, and I imagine at night a good spot for dogging. It were my contention to Party Time that you could rig up little cameras and mics in the foliage area along the edge of the towpath and that you could make good blackmail money off of it.

 - Bet you'd make the King's Ransom, - I went.

 - A fockhan fore-tune – went Party Time. - It ash mah believe ah believe thah yah wad Gat sam Hagh profall faces at thah' rand hare?!?

 - Yup... - I went.

The jittery Pole got to us just after sundown.

He took us up through Stranmillis. We came up along some of these little co-eds walking along and he wound his window down and started barking like a dog at them. They wiggled along in their sheer leggings with their VPL laid out like fuckin veins on a smackhead's arm. I was feeling mightily embarrassed by the jittery Pole's barking. Every time his frame jerked the car lurched over to the side. A couple of times he nearly went up onto the footpath – the second time nearly careering right into an old granny carrying a bag of Satsumas.

We met his man down the Lower Ormeau. This bunch of psychedelic punksters – their hair dyed psychedelic, garish yellows and reds, - lived in the house we went into. Most of them spoke Eastern European languages. Fat Sandra was there with her fella. She was, like every other time I've seen her, tearing little corners of a roll of toilet paper and eating it.

 - Hello, Fat Sandra, - I went.

 - Who as thahs cant? - Inquired Part Time.

 - This is Fat Sandra, - went I.

 - Ah rat, - went Party Time.

The jittery Pole, who'd been summoned into a back room when we got in the house, came back out with a crouched over old man with a white beard and long white hair, who I reckoned was the fabled Gandalf of the L______ R___. The old wizened cunt proceeded to try and freak me out by standing dead close to my person and making out like he were throwing little bits of things at me. He would hold his hand up, lining it up with his eye, with his thumb and forefinger only an inch or so apart, like he held something daintily within, like an object, and he would draw it back a little and squint, like he were lining shit up, then he would go to throw this thing at me, but really there was nothing there, but he were quite convincing in making believe there was, and trying to get me to believe the same. When I told him I could see the balls, that they were the size of about Brussels Sprouts and black in colour, he laughed ruefully then ceased his shenanigans.

He give me and Part Time a good deal on the speed he sold us.

I fucking love speed. It gives me precision in my game of wits with Party Time. It gives me precision also in my recountings. It gives me precision in choosing my words. In constructing the right syntax.

Part Time's mind is like a major city's citizens after they've been overrun by an invading army during wartime. It is susceptible to the crudest of propaganda. Fuck's sake – I once told him the provo's had an airforce and if you were out and you heard an air raid siren you had to go seek cover under the nearest thing – cars, whatever.

One day when we were kids, some time round Christmas when he were over for a visit, me and him went up to my pal Bogdan's house. I'd given Bogdan reasonable forewarning of our coming up to his and made him privy to my Provo airforce yarn. I told him to cue up his sound effects CD in his HI-FI and to put it at his window and wait for my call. When he saw us at the bottom of his street, I told him, he would play the recorded noise of an air raid siren from the Sound Effects CD through the HI- FI at his window. And so when the young me and the young Party Time dandered up Bogdan's street that cold Christmas week afternoon we suddenly heard the noise of an old WW2 air raid siren echoing through the place, and Party Time dived under the nearest van griping loudly about the Irish being the blacks of Europe and how where he was from this was just bakers' buns, airforce squadrons flying sorties.

Later on Party Time, after huffing loadsa speed, told me about how now he'd got word that he had a little newborn nephew back in where he's from.

This makes him very sad as he cannot return to his homeland and commune with his blood as he has a bounty on his head back there. He tells me this was the very beginning of his problems:

 - Ah wash gatling dan wah sam bad cants. Bad. Ra'al Bad. Gat tah ah pint ah rhab'd thah lah-cal dealers ahf thah Christ-All ahn aftah thah they cam roun' tah mah gaff, ahn chass mah thru the 'hood. Thah stab mah in thah stomach wah blade, and shoot affar mah. Ah ram'mamber thah afternoon ah flee the homelann'. Ah wash listeening tah thash track:

 - blad purring atta mah! Ah sald the Christ-All atta knockdown prace and buy a ticket tah London...!!! Tah frahdome!!!  

What You Want For Nothin'? A Rubber Biscuit?

Another happening occurring in the last fortnight was that Party Time done a bunk for 4 days.

It all started on a Saturday afternoon. I was at home watching a Coronation Street omnibus, and Party Time turns to me and says...

          -  Ah ahm gan to thah shaps.

          - Right, - I went.

And he just didn't come back.

I hadn't noticed until the 4 hour Coronation Street marathon was over. I sat through the credits; right to the end. Someone had told me there's a very blatant subliminal appears somewhere after the 15 second mark. I got onto the floor and onto my belly and shimmied my way over till I was right up under my old shitey set and staring close at the screen.

When I thought I saw it I went to Party Time, - There did you see it? - And when I turned to look to get his reaction, he wasn't there.

I rang him a few times on his mobile as the night went on, but come the next day I coulda give a shit what'd happened to him.

By the fourth day I did begin to get worried. Not so much for his sake as much as for mine. If he turned up dead the police would get involved. For the same reasons I hadn't called them yet to report him missing I now hoped beyond hope he wasn't dead. I crossed both my fingers and put one of those prayers to St Jude in the Belfast Telegraph's classified, St Jude being the saint of lost causes.

Then, the fifth day he came home. I thanked St Jude by saying a prayer, then ruined it at the end by praying for the death of my enemies and loadsa dosh.

I arrived home sometime mid-afternoon having been out delivering a thing for a new pal. I notice the distinctive multicoloured tennis shoes of Party Time sticking out from under my neighbour's car.

  - What you doin under there, Party Time? I asked

  -  Ah ahm axe-spectan far a car bamb. Wah mast gat avah tah Hammasmyth quack fast tah pack app mar praddack!                                               

  -  But, Party Time, - I insisted, - You're back in shitey old Belfast again...you're not in London no more!

At this he pulled himself out from under the neighbour's car. He was all sweaty and I got the impression he'd sprinted all the way from the International Airport, which is a good 4.5 miles, anyway. He got up and dusted himself off. Then a neighbour appeared.

  -  Here! - His big red face squealed. - What you at under my car? You planting a bomb under there, yah big cunt?        
  -  Nahhhh...- drawled Party Time, his eyes rolling in his head.
  -  What's'at? - Went the neighbour cupping his hand under his wee, underdeveloped burns' victim lug, - I don't fuckin speak ape, cunt...Nae what ye at?
  -  Don't worry, - went I, stepping in with the condescension of an archbishop, - he is my cousin, and he  has learning difficulties. Shame on you!

At this the fat bald headed little man hung his head and shuffled his fat arse off in the direction of his neat little house.

I took Party Time inside and sat him down on the couch, and he told me his story.

He had gone round to the shops, as he had said, with the intention of buying a box of smokes and coming straight back home again. At the shops he met this dear old woman, who was buying Miracle Grow for her garden. Party Time convinced her he'd do her garden for 80 quid, and after some arm twisting she agreed.

So he spends the afternoon doing that. The old duck pays him, and he is on his way. Only he is not coming home to me, he is heading to the airport and he is getting the first plane to London.

When in London he meets all his old connections and he spends 3 and a half days smoking Crystal and snaking Filipinos. Before he leaves he has enough wherewithal still though to purchase some reasonable quantity of Crystal to bring back home with him. He is planning to test the market here for it, to put some out there and see what demand is like.

But once again his grand plans are scuppered by a heavy paranoid turn and once again it is the Chinese, he believes, are after him again...only this time not the Triads but the Chinese Secret Police. They are waiting for him to board the flight, he thinks. They are going to lift him then, no doubt.

So he goes into the nearest toilets, locks the cubicle door behind him and shoots what he can up his arm and flushes the rest.

On the plane he's fine. It's when he touched down in Belfast he came up on it. He stepped out onto the concourse, the sun in his face, and felt the euphoria whirlpool in his belly. And after that he can't remember a fucking thing.

   

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:

God's On Our Side, We Know We're Right, Come To The Light: Say Goodbye To All Your History

I have been all at 6’s and 7’s this last week busying me and Party Time into rustling up the coin so’s we can buy up some provisions, or, what I am calling them: ‘Our Doomsday Supplies’.

Having learnt I’d suffered a bereavement (Boke The Cat’s dead *RIP*) + a massive dive in serotonin levels due to the ingesting of 3 of the strongest e’s I’ve had in years (ergo subsequent comedown being equally powerful) + add into the mix: I learn my sister Micheesha has taken up again with that Stupid Peter, having kicked him out 2 or 3 months back for whipping the children with “electrical cut-offs” he nicked off the building site he works on.

Party Time told me a story the other day about how when he was destitute in London - (thought that’s not where he’s from, for those seeking to whittle down the suspects, so to speak) – and found himself living in some old derelict former funeral home, down and out in the strictest sense, his mental wellbeing decimated by some type of meth induced paranoid psychosis, so much so he’s into believing that the Triads are after him and were, at any minute, going to locate him and haul him off and stub out fag ends on his forehead, or whatever it is the Triads do when you cross them big style.

He filled me in a little on the circumstances that led up to this; dealing Crystal outta a house in (one of those well known run down areas of London) with this Sri Lankan (or Nepalese [can’t remember]) doll, who was his woman, and how something had ensued with them, money or whatever, and she basically either twisted his head or was for real in convincing him she *was* getting the Triads on him (even though I thought they were exclusively a Chinese gang).

So he’s walking the streets of London and finds himself in this derelict funeral home and then, in the telling of this story, he switches to talking about the one’s in the gang he was in, back at where he’s from, that they got this thing, can’t remember, but they got a name for it, its like a string round their neck, with a Clipper Lighter and a pipe strung through, so when they took a notion to have a toke their instruments weren’t more than an inch from their lips. But, the point of him telling me this, he says, is that these were the ones who were really caning it, all the time, and that sort of Crystal using it forms, like, bubbles on the brain, these chemical collections, that cannot be processed by the body, or broken down, so these highly corrosive chemical build-ups eat into the brain, destroying certain parts of it like the areas dealing with short-term memory and pleasure receptors. And that is why, he tells me, when he started hitting it hard due to his paranoia, his face became all collapsed in like an old man on chemo and his teeth are all gone to shit, cos whatever chemicals are used in the manufacture of Crystal, the left-behinds in the body eat you up. But these chemical build-ups don’t only collect in the brain or eat away at your innards; they can be expelled through the pores and sometimes come out like acne.

So Party Time’s there, in this derelict funeral home, where he also finds a coupla other squatters, these Lithuanians, and they got the place all wired up with a TV and microwave etc, proper wee bolthole. For Party Time, though, the Triad heebie-jeebies are rocking him real bad. His face has broken out with this ‘chemical acne’ after the heavy using, this build up of dermatological meth clusters under his skin. So in his desperation, to stave off ‘the fear’, he pops this shit into a square of tin foil and puts it in his pipe, like as a gauze, and smokes it…

…Ahhh!!!

But that ain’t even the half of it. Party Time’s maybe got us some attention from our own intel apparatus here in lovely NI, the Special Branch, but that’ll have to be for another time.

It’s only left for me to say that with this convergence of anxieties, 1 part circumstance of environment, 2 parts consequence, if I were a country I’d be on amber alert with the threat level sliding toward red. The walls are closing in on all fronts, with the micro mirroring the macro…it may all go to shit tomorrow for one and all, and who wants to be left like a spare dick at an orgy…the results are in, and the coin’ll be found to stock the cupboards, steel ourselves against the prevailing winds of discord, keep the rolling news on a loop…and maintain: