Pretty Paper, Pretty Ribbons Of Blue, Wrap Your Presents To Your Darling From You

As featured in Third Sunday Blog Carnival

After that scatty little detour – haha! – I’m back functioning to the best of my abilities again and putting all the words in their proper order. Praise be! 

Christmas didn’t turn out too bad after all despite Mother inviting Uncle Dudley, who, at this time of year, gets pissed every day from the night of Children In Need onward till he’s stone broke a few days after New Year’s and he can drink no more. I would suppose that he is drunk more so between this period as it is fair to say he is drunk generally most the year round. 

In this very drunk state he tends to antagonise people, crossly accusing them of engineering plots to bring about his downfall. Trying to get them to own up to these conspiracy’s – or he'll at least, finally, pleadingly, request some abstract clue as to how to avoid ruin.

As well in attendance were that fucking holyjoe moonbeam Nirab, who before Christmas Dinner tried to fucking rap grace, then gimmie a wink after like I’d think he were fuckin boss of the bus or something. Earlier to that, to freak Nirab out, Uncle Dudley held one of Mother’s many crosses over the flame from the cooker in the kitchen then stuck it into his forehead upside down branding himself with it, like Glen Benton outta Deicide. All through dinner Uncle Dudley sat staring out Nirab trying to freak him out with his mad upside down cross, but that dirty snake Nirab, cold and barren as a nun’s cervix, didn’t take him on at all – making me think it mattered to him neither way the wanton sacrilege of the Gentle Jesus’ Club pin badge.

After dinner Micheesha, Stupid Peter and their kids came in. Micheesha’d told Mother on Christmas Eve Eve that she was on some special diet and that she couldn’t have the usual X-mas fare. But that was all lies, cos she told me, in secret, that Mother’s turkey when she did it it was like plasterboard garnished with sawdust and wrapped in sandpaper going down, which is exactly how I’d described it last year, and was exactly how it were this year. That selfish cunt Nirab went through a jug and a half of water on his.

Over brandy and Christmas pud’ Nirab turned his attentions to Uncle Dudley and beat him in the staring out game. Uncle Dudley began to cry like he does when drunk/emotional and got the better of. Then Nirab nearly choked on the penny in the pudding and everybody laughed, apart from Mother, who beat Nirab’s back rapidly, squealing and trying to get it up…

We retired into Mother’s lounge to get pissed and I asked Micheesha what she’d had for dinner instead.

 - We stapped at thuh fuckin Muck’Danalds over utt Connswater!

 - Lucky packa cunt’s, - I went. – You have any burgers left in the motor?

 - Do I fuck! – Went Micheesha. - Fuckin kids gobbled em up like Hungry Hungry Hippos. Me and Stupid Peter only hod a carton of chips between us! I'm'Ah be starvin, Danny! And so'll Stupid Peter. And he cant hold his liquor at thuh besta times, nevur mine when he's boozin! 

I went outside and got into Stupid Peter’s car and sniffed some empty McDonald’s bags to get my taste buds working again after getting them terraformed by Mother’s dry bird. After that I found one of the children’s Heat Magazines and pulled one out over Tina from Corrie going to some X-mas do all dressed to the 9’s. When I were done I stared into the sky and resolved to get some authentic muff in 2012. Then I went back inside.

In the short time I’d been out Nirab had recruited Stupid Peter into his God cult. I tried to renounce Nirab and his fairy tales and tell Stupid Peter that Christ the Messiah was most likely a prototype EBE*, a forerunner of common man – now broke from the shackles of apeman impulses by being imbued with Space Genes, transforming us into the fast thinking, imaginative and above all compassionate specimens we are today…

 

But Stupid Peter was well gone, all the way along Nirab’s Yellow Brick Road. I give up on him then ruminated on Nirab’s powers of persuasion, his stealth and speed and cunning in getting the simple minded to get on his side. And I also begun to wonder had I found our front man in me and Party Time’s Credit Card Fraud scheme…if so, the first stop was getting to see if he were in any financial dif’s one way or another…Maybe a drab, hopeless Christmas and a ominous New Year were beginning to look up, the fortunes flipping, an inversion of fate, as in like Uncle Dudley’s upside down God’s cross stuck into his noggin.

*EBE: Extraterrestrial Biological Entity

Diamond In The Back, Sunroof Top, Diggin' The Scene With A Gangster Lean

Party Time, thank fuck, was able to secure himself a crisis loan from the brew today – so this weekend we'll be eating.

I was beginning to think that he was going to eat the cat (not calling him Gore Vidal anymore) so hungry was he. His stomach rumbled all last night, something sounding like the pained moans of a wounded creature echoing through the deep, dark cave it'd crawled away to die in.

When I am hungry like this I swallow my spit a lot. Swallow, swallow swallow. As a child I thought I didn't need to work in school to get a good job cos you didn't need money, really:

 - And what you gonna eat. What food you gonna buy with no money? - Scolded Mother when I began striking from doing homework.

 - I'll eat my own shit if it comes to it. Eat it, Shit it, Eat it, Shit it – Just go and sit somewhere along Castle Street begging till I make up enough coin to get me a Big Mac Meal...and...Eat it, Shit it, Eat it, Shit it...

 - What is WRONG with you, eh? Trembled Mother.

And last night I were thinking, really: was my childhood naivety and general lack of rudimentary biological & toxicological facts really so naïve? Were it really so bad? To eat yer own feces if absolutely starving? Those chicks in 2girls 1cup did it, and them on 'specialised' pornstar wages, they  wouldn't have needed to eat shit cos they were starving, but cos they wanted to get paid – and so if you can eat shit to get paid you can eat shit to eat is what I were turning over in my dried up, nutrient starved brain.

I proposed my ideas to Party Time but he didn't like em at all.

He told me it were beyond savage. That a savage would kill and eat another savage,:

 - Bat somethan b'yand savage eat at awn shat!

 - What about we shoot a few birds outta Mrs Mullberry's trees and eat them?

 - Nah. Ah wall nat eat a crate-ture aff thah ska.

I rolled around holding my belly and nibbling on an orange peel I found up the side of the cooker. Party Time began doing exercises.

 - Ah hav idea, Danny.

 - What?

 - Ah wash tinkin. Wah fatagraft papals' cradat card.

 - How we manage to do that? And why?

 - Ah danna yacht, hah. But aff wah culd, wah have all thah dat-tails wah need tah rap a cant aff jast fram ah sall-fone fatta aff thah frant aff has card, an mammary-rising thah scare-ity nambah an thah bach an rattin thah dan wan his gane!

 - That's not a bad idea Party Time. Not at all is that a bad idea. Cos that's all you need, right? The 'Long Number', the name, valid to – and – from, all what you'll get of the phone-photo of the front of it...and that security number yiv got written down. Then we'll go online and buy up a loada shit. Sell it down in Cash Convertors, what we don't want! Fuckin hell, you big cunt, that's the first brilliantly criminal thing yiv come up with, despite yer gangster leanings. Goddamn! I may be starving, but this deserves a fitting tune, cousin!!! We'll think of HOW we do it when we've something in our bellies and our energy's up!

Its Time For A Cowboy To Dream

Yesterday morning's Jeremy Kyle show was entitled 'Kids Used To Call Me Burnt Toast'.

The poor girl that Kyle was emotionally effacing had a head like a raisin. She had no nose and her eyes were all watery and closed over like the eyes of poor bunnies that get shampoo poured in em for shampoo safety testing.

As is always the case with Kyle's contestants the reason for her horrific head (the result of very severe burns) was bad parenting – this time in the shape of a drunken father with one arm and a glass eye who poured a chip pan fulla hot fat into her cot where she slept.

At his trial he claimed he was going for the girl's dog that'd shite in his slipper, but the dog, being cunning, slid under the cot at just the right time to avoid the torrent of boiling chip fat.

I had a wank over one of the dimwits in the audience then got up to go down and wait for the man to come fix my light.

Downstairs Party Time had effected his plan to cover up the holes he'd made in the living room walls trying to shoot that bat with his lead pellet rifle. He'd gotten these big white sheets from somewhere and painted on them all, very crudely, all these bestial, pornographic figures engaged in carnal acts – large groups of figures, some fellating rectangle shaped cocks sprouting from big thick sausage shaped legs, some shagging children and animals, others weeping in corners - all ferocious, fevered stuff rendered in scouring reds and blacks. He had hung them right the way around the room, covering every inch of wall. It looked like cave paintings done by a deranged primitive.

 - What the fuck is this filth, Party Time? - I said.

 - At ash murals cavrin the holy walls.

 - The man's gonna think we're involved in some type of sex ritual cult, you know...fuckin hell, man!

 - Hah wall nat. Papal dant care abat yer prah-vat afars. He ah spark calming tah fax yer light, nat a social car warker!

 - I'm not very confident about this situation Party Time, I have to say...

It turned out I'd nothing to worry about. Some boss eyed moron arrived whistling The Sash and got it sorted in 15 minute, and in that time, in order to distract him from Party Time's crayon-eater sex doodles, I said to him:

Bit outta season for that wee ditty ain't it?

Every day's the 12^th in this here head mate, - he said tapping his temple.

Ah the glorious 12^th, eh?

Most glorious day of the year, mate!

Ahhh..., - I went. - Here, you like shadow puppets, - I went, making a little rabbit ears on my white hall wall. The year-round Orangeman was greatly taken by this.

He a Orange monkey? - He went.

No he's a loyalist rabbit! - Said I.

Later me and Party Time went round to Micheesha's so I could see if she'd lend me a score. Mother was with her, crying into her tea.

It turns out she's a rival in her love affair with Nirab. She says this rival uses the successes of her children in a point scoring game with her.

 - I wish I could say you two were both dead...but I can't cos Nirab knows yer both alive, he's met you both...but if I said you were dead, both of you, at least I could get out of this game with Lavinya and cash in some sympathy chips with the rest of The Movement (Nirab's God Cult) - said Mother, bawling.

 - You could say I do special work for the government that you can't talk about, - I offered.

 - I think its fuckin offensive if you ask me, - moaned Micheesha. - Yah want us dead do you? We'll I'll tell you wah, sometimes I wish I were dead w'these fuckin chill'rin pesterin me for shite 24/7 and Stupid Peter comin in all hours of the day and night smellin ah other dolls' cunt seepage – I FUCKIN WISH I WAS DEAD SOMETIMES - so tell you what, Ma, you buy us the ticket tah that suicide camp over in Switzerland or whereever the fuck and i'll go there, get their shot, and I'll be outta yer hair then, eh?

 - ...Or I could say you got a family, Micheesha, but even at that Nirab knows none, not one of those wains are from the same seed, - went Mother like what Micheesha had just said had washed over her in an amnesiac dropout.

 - Ah fuck ye then, - whined Micheesha -

 I for one thought it better not to ask for a lend of a score of Micheesha now. So me and Party Time left.

No money and in for a hungry night. 

 

you said it felt like when you learned to float

Mother went and fucken flipped out when she saw that the nails of my left hand, which were neatly clipped and uniform, compared to those of my right, which were gnarly - and beheld a yellowed jaundiced light when they were pointed sunward - did not match up...

My clippers snapped when I done my left hand and I ain't just got round to buying some more. - I simpered. - Well let mummy cut em for you...!!! - She went.

No I say! On guard! - I went in a tone reminiscent of noblemen proposing a duel.  

Now...

A Prayer

by

Daniel Pongo 

Please God let me die peacefully and not incrementally like the hospital serial dramas and the gov. sponsored health ads would have you believe. Let me not be stricken with a mild/severe stroke initially, to begin with, to end up losing all motor function culminating 6months later with a surgical repository attached to every orifice.

Please God let not pointless human gunge I expel internally collect in my lower recesses to darken my posterior - and all in a futile and disgusting bodily protestation spurred by one's material certitude. 

Please God let it be quick in my dreams while I lie prostate and coddled by the stasis of slumber.

Please God don't even let me jerk or spasm. Let my heart just stop and not flutter. Let me not kick out and awaken my partner; and if I sleep alone let not my vessel roll floorward to end up blocking the door.

Amen

I'm Standing In The Wind But I Never Wave Bye-Bye...But I Try

Mother got in very late the other night. She had this freak Nirab, leader of the big shot Christian sect, with her.

- Just away to the little girls' room, - went mother, me cringing.

Nirab came over and plonked himself down on the arm of the chair I was sitting in.

- Yer ma's hot stuff, - he went.
- Don't be getting any ideas. Anyway, I thought you were a man of God? Didn't think you lot went in for sins of the flesh?
- We've all our temptations and shortfalls, Danny. Especially us ones that're drawn to the divine...ha! That's a good one isn't it? I think I'll use it on yer mother, hey? What do you think...'Mildred...years I have sought the Divine, but I'm never closer to it that when I am by your side.'...What you think, Danny? - He went, licking his chops.
- I think you better get out before I tell my mother the sort of man you really are!
- Don't be darft! Your mother knows the sort of man I am. She wouldn't be after me if she didn't.
- I know your sort...Jim Jones, Charley Manson, Jesus...fuckin do a few parlour tricks and say yer the Son Of Man and you get to snake any girl that crosses yer path! 

I was getting red in the face.

Mother reentered the room.

- What you yelling at Nirab for, Danny? - Whimpered mother.
- He's a fuckin pervert, - I went.
- I know. And ain't it grand?! He's sexually very adventurous!
- You ever seen a woman squirt before, Danny? - Went Nirab, his rheumy right eye red and glinting.
- Yeah, master of it, - I went.
- Yer ma doesn't leave much to be desired you know, in the bedroom. See that tattoo she got on her ankle.
- Oh yes this lovely dolphin on my ankle, - went mother cooing. - That fucking witch Sam Cameron stole that one on me.
- Well I have a theory, - went Nirab rubbing his chin, faux academical like. - I have a theory that women with tattoos take it up the hole...

I got up and went to the front door.

- Mother, I'm going. I got what I came here to get and I'm leaving.
- Thought ye'd like to join us? - went Nirab.
- Fuck off, Jonestown!

At this mother threw her head back and laughed like a loon. - Go get the lube and the shitewipe, woman, - went Nirab, loud enough for me to hear.

On the way down mother's drive I keyed Nirab's car and broke a windscreen wiper off.

I prayed that on his way home, driving up the motorway, it would start pouring and having no wipers to clear his window to see where he was going and nowhere to stop he'd plough headfirst into the back of an articulated lorry at not an inconsiderable speed and die instantly.

I sat listening to records at home and dropped the last of the acid I'd creamed off the Jewish Hippies.

I reflected on mother's infatuation with Nirab, putting this one on to colour my surmisings:

So What's The Girl To Do? Who Sits On The Couch And She's Feeling Blue

Sometimes I'll cough so hard so's to bring up a big bit of brown gack from the back of my throat threatening to make me boke my ring up just by the sight of it alone.

Earlier I found a bit of foul chicken in the back of the fridge and give it a good sniff, something which's one of my hobbies, sniffing rotten things (I also like to stare at rotten things too: like dead pigeons that've been run over by a truck and burst their innards out all over the road -- like odd shaped and/or coloured dog shite).

It was a very foul smelling chicken breast that'd gone green and sprouted little white polyps. The smell shot through my olfactory canals and I peeled off in circles round and round my rustic kitchen as dry bokes jackknifed my body while my arms flailed wildly in autonomous grasping desperation, trying to find any ledge to hang off. I grabbed the back of my one kitchen chair (smashed the other one to bits after Kimba left me) and led it on a merry waltz around the table looking to find a place to put it down that didn't have slimy, slidey shite underneath.

When I was still I hung from the back of the chair my arms outstretched and coughing violently. After the coughing fit I opened my eyes and stared intently at the black and white checkerboard lino. Then, all around, from the outside creeping in to the centre, my vision had been invaded by silver worms of white light that seemed to have slid through the cracks in the ether and appeared on my kitchen floor.

I squinted in great confusion at this. Blinked hard twice like a heavy lidded be-witched Disney character till they disappeared.

I decided to go round to my mother's as she had cupboardfuls or Pure Orange. As I was under the impression I were having a bad trip, I reckoned the vitamin C would bring me down. Mother also had some milk-o-magnesia which I'd have for my bad stomach. She likes to spoon it to me when I am feeling poorly, even now, at this age, but I let her, cos otherwise she will not give it to me and I will have to go and buy some at a chemist.

I arrive at mother's, but she is not in. I wait a bit while I drink lots of orange with crushed up ice in it and feel better, less prone to hallucinating. I wait a little bit longer then go and check under her bed for her Bible. Her Bible is not there, meaning only one thing: she will not be back for a while as she is down town at Corn Market preaching for these bunch of big deal holy rollers, but ulterior-ly cos she's her eye on their leader, Nirab.

I accompanied her once to stand with her and this weird posse of God Botherers handing out depressing leaflets about the End Of The World and the Anti-Christ. By us at another sadness-stall (as I came to call them) was this other lot who were Pro-Lifers. They had big blow up shots of late term aborted fetuses pasted onto boards and lined up along the edge of their table. An old doll came over and put her foot through one. I laughed and went off to buy a Big Mac and on the way back one of them came up to me holding out one of their aborted fetus boards and I yell: - I'm fuckin eatin' a Big Mac. What you doin? C'mon! Play the game! - And she went, - Pepsi get their flavour from aborted fetus cells! - To which I yelled back, - McDonalds! - putting on like a full-spastic and waving my Big Mac wrapper at her, when she went, - ASSOCIATION!

I smeared the half ate Big Mac on the Pro-Lifer's fetus board and boked on her back when she turned to call for reinforcements. The crazy bitches chased me halfway up Ann Street till I started shouting, - Suicide Bombers! Suicide Bombers! - and they backed off.

So I sat reminising about this and getting blue, bluer still when I thought I saw the ghost of Boke the Cat.

Then I put this one in ma's cassette player cos it suited the mood:

There Once Was A Poodle Who Thought He Was A Cowboy...

I do so fucking hate getting a wash. It was though, unfortunately, a complete necessity today as after getting my haircut a load of wee jaggies had gone down my back causing a frantic blur of itching on the bus on the way home. To others on the bus (delivering odd and morbidly enquiring looks) it must’ve looked like I were suffering from some sort of mental illness that manifested in extreme histrionics mostly.

So I was glad to get back into the house, and once settled the jaggies didn’t cause half as much annoyance as when I was out, walking around. So I procrastinated and procrastinated for two and half hours altogether. I watched The Searchers twice and had a wank over John Wayne, something I always end up doing when I watch one of his flicks two times in a row.

Then after smoking my 7^th rollie and loudly sighing at my lack of brainpower in conjuring another diversion to keep me from the bath, I roused myself to get up when my telephone rings.

It was my mother.

-         It is your mother calling, - she says with her clipped accent.

-         I know it is. Your name came up. I have you listed as ‘mum’.

-         Comfortable. Good. Well, I need you to come round. I broke my hand trying to swat a fly.

-         How in the name of fuck did you do that?

-         Not my whole hand, mind you, just my pointing finger and my fingering finger –

-         Ah! No! Don’t…! Don’t use rhetoric like that with me!

-         Why not? Its natural.

-         No it is not! Not natural. Talking to me, using those descriptions, it’s akin to incest!

-         Ahh! Get away to hell!

-         Tell me, how’d you do that trying to swat a fly?

-         I was chasing the thing round the kitchen all afternoon when it landed on your cousin Donatello’s face, forehead to be precise about it, as he sat on the floor doing a Thunderbirds jigsaw. And I smacked it flat as a pancake with the palm of my hand. But poor Donatello thought I was giving him a smack for no good reason, and grabbed my fingers and squeezed till he broke them. Strong as oxen are those ones with Down’s Syndrome.

-         Yes, - I went.

-         But that’s not all. Donatello went screaming out of the house like a Loony Toon with a mashed up fly all over his bake. So I’ve sent your sister Micheesha and Stupid Peter out to find him. I want you to come over here and make my dinner for me. I can’t do nathin with two broken fingers.

-         Right.

-         And bring me some bourbon.

-         Will do.

So I went over with her bourbon and made her Birdseye burgers, which I quartered and served to her on crackers with cheese melted on. She loves this and it is all she eats.

Later we stood by the big kitchen window birdwatching. She let me drink a bourbon, too. I put this track on her cassette player to keep the mood of he moment going.  


  

So Hold Me Mom In Your Long Arms...In Your Military Arms

When I was 16 I started bucking this gagging-for-it 41-year-old mad 'un. She was bottle blonde and called Jude. She was a friend of my mother’s from her PTA days and she introduced the two of us (my mother) over a game of Buckaroo.

Apt.

I think it was the mechanical jerking of that bucking plastic donkey or whatever it was got me so turned on to begin with. As the game went on Dirty Jude started playing footsie with me, inching her little foot up the inside of my leg straight up to my cock. That foot of hers had a great dexterity and could even grip things; probably with the same strength as a baby monkey.

Dirty Jude’d had no babies and as a result of this her skin, especially round her torso, was smooth and firm and her tits were round pert classics. I liked to put one of them in each hand close my eyes and imagine I were carrying two baldy midgets under each arm.

This pink smooth stretch of MILF converged at her bald round cunt. It rose from the valley of her stomach like a Mayan temple on a faraway hill and was a source of fascination and pleasure for me.

The thing I really dug Dirty Jude for most of all though was her giving me an education. The most appreciated lesson was in how to give and receive anal.

She used to say – You want to come in through the VIP entrance tonight, lover? – in her cracked and ruptured girlie falsetto. Then she rolled onto her stomach and spread her cosy little arse cheeks apart while I poured Baby Oil all round her opening which were like a soft spongy crater in appearance.

While this were her most appreciated lesson, her most cherished trick was her big shaking, squirting climaxes. Her ejaculate would fire out of her like a fireman’s hose. She would wriggle in my arms like she were in a seizure and flap her tongue about. I liked to hold her in the middle and squeeze hard, like I were getting toothpaste outta a tube.
Yeah: Dirty Jude.

It was over Christmas ma reminded me of her. We were sitting over a reasonable Christmas Lunch, all the usual things there, turkey like fucking plasterboard trying to swallow it (or it could’ve been my nerves) and she says:
- remember that dirty auld hoor Dirty Jude? –
- yes, - I said – remember you give her a thick ear when Micheesha told you what we’d been doin’ together?
- Wish I’d’ve given her a thick head. You’re a dirty pig, Danny. Goin’ with a hoor like that, older than your mummy.
- What about cousin Uganda (cousin I haven’t mentioned before. A gaming success – make of that what you will). He married one 14 years older. He married her. And he’s rich as fuck. He got trapped, dear. I was desperate for a fuck, 16 and all. Which makes him he fool in my eyes and me just…
- Don’t talk about your libido in front of your mummy. C’mon now, play the game!

Later Micheesha came in. Sat all night making eyes at me but didn’t say anything because Mother was sitting there.

When mother started to nod off she said: - That auld hoor Dirty Jude, - out of the blue - but really a culmination of her annual Christmas Night eyebrow plucking ‘settling of an old score’ in her militaristic brain.
- Dirty Jew! – exclaimed Micheesha. – Don’t be anti-Semitic. Its Christmas!
- Christmas is when its nearly ok to be anti-Semitic. – I said while watching gentle Jesus on the tele getting all his presents from the magi.

I Could Be The Hands That Breaks The Chains That Set You Free: Gary McKinnon, Frustrated 90s Popster

This evening I went round to my mother’s on the back of an invite for a spot of cold night hot Sunday Roast, which mainly consisted of heated up burnt things like spuds and carrots to eat.

So I expected to walk in to a big spread with loads of meat and veg’...presenting with wispy wet pallid steam rising in snaking random plumes from it all and smelling great...but instead I came in through her side door to find her sitting at the kitchen table with a collage of Dear Deirdre articles that she’d cut outta The Sun spread out in front of her.

She explained to me that she were making up an epic narrative from these Dear Deirdre strips, combining the photo stories with the letter problems. I don’t know why, it must have been my mood, but I embraced this keenly as an inspired though overall-ly original art venture. So much so that the specific particular emotions, palpably yielding a notable chemical movement in my mind, turned up a memory of Outsider Artist Henry Darger and his Vivian Girls epic.

When I went back home I was frightened and disappointed to discover someone had put a banger through my letterbox. All the junk mail that had collected in the corner was burnt up into a black shiny mush and poor Boke the Cat was cowering in the corner licking his tail, which was all singed and baldy at the end.

I closed and double locked the front door and poked about in the big pile of ashes the remains of all the many sad months of junk mail and found amidst it all a day-glo post-it note untouched and perfectly preserved miraculously like a Ark Of The Covenant type divine relic.

It read:

“From your intel contact, Rueben.

Gary McKinnon stumbled upon something v.big. US Marines being trained by ET in specially fitted anti-grav’ bases on the moon. Check it out...

PS G.McKinnon was a try-hard pop star in the ‘90’s. Look it up. Then look further.”

I fucking hate Richard Madeley. Actually I once had an idea for a programme I thought might have a chance of getting made by one of the major networks, called 'Madeley Feeds Africa', where Richard goes to Africa and visits 3 starving townships who are required to put on a show so's to provide him with the utmost entertainment. At the end of each episode Madeley decrees which township put on the best show and for a prize this township receives a free UN food drop for a whole year. The two losing townships however are machine gunned to death by Judy Finnegan in an overflying Apache Helicoptor, while the pineal glands of the still warm corpses are to be extracted and fed to her in a vain attempt to cure her alcoholism.

So I sent it into them.

And still haven't heard back.

Kill Me Now Or Pay Me Later

It turned out Stevenson had personally brought round the summons for my court appearance to be done for blasphemous vandalism.

Inside, Kimba sat at the kitchen table glugging rotten Maxwell instant.
- Vandalism and breach of the peace, - I said reading the summons out loud.
- What’d he bring it right round here for? – said Kimba, trembling.
- I don’t know, - I said. – I don’t think he’s right in the head. You’ll not be right in the head if you keep drinking coffee like that and shaking. You’ll shake your skeleton out your hole.
Kimba laughed her coffee out her nose then boked on the floor.
- Clean up, - I said, handing her the mop.

Put off my toast and Satsuma by Kimba’s bad manners I skipped breakfast and decided to go see my mum instead.

My mum is not long out of a psych ward after her doctor, a Dr Styrm, mistakenly believed she’d tried to cut her own throat, while in actual fact (as everyone from me down to my Down’s Syndrome cousin Donatello will tell you) she cut herself by accident while shaving.

It turned out, as she told me over a hot whiskey, that she enjoyed the pace of the place so much that she acted the eejit in order to stay in a little longer. I realised then she’d been there for 2 months when she was initially only meant to stay for two weeks.
- And not one visit from you or Micheesha! – she scolded.
- I’ve had other things on my mind. I don’t know about Micheesha.
- I can’t rely on my family any more. Just as well then I made some new friends in the hospital. One nice man, named Maurice, explained to me all about the ‘end days’ and that the age of the Anti-Christ is nearly upon us. He told me that the United Nations are going to act as a platform for this Anti-Christ...and he told me to listen to this song to help me understand it all a bit better.
She took from her pinny then a cassette with the words “AXIS ’67 PART 1 – BOBBY CONN” scribbled on the label and put it in her crappy old 80’s stereo.

Out of politeness I tapped the table and nodded my head in time to the number, all while keeping a close eye on her. The notion occurred to me that she had not been acting the eejit on the psych ward but was, in the opinion of the doctors, someone not ‘ready for the outside world yet’, something I’d long suspected.

Somewhere after the two minute mark of the song when it gets heavier she got up and started dancing around, - throwing her hands up in the air and leaping about like a mentally challenged Southern Baptist minister trying to do a star jump during one of his raucous epiphanies.

On hearing the hubbub cousin Donatello ran in then and give me one of his ‘strong hugs’ that I’d warned him about before. Then the two of them joined hands in the middle of the floor and went round and round in circles chanting over and over: Pretty Vacant, The Way Of The Lord’, but I’m not too sure that’s the way the words went though...

You Gotta Get Up To Get Down, Baby

As I can’t face having to tell Kimba that she is to be sodomised by a pair Alsatians while she gives birth to our triplet children I have decided to stay away from our dirty little hole as much as possible in an act of foolhardy procrastination.

I landed on Bosco there on Friday night telling him my mother had died after tripping over a sleeping tramp in London and fatally cracking her head on the kerb, so would he mind providing me with a bit of company. In reality what had happened (and what inspired my telling him she were dead so’s to get into his house) is that she somehow severed an artery shaving her ‘unwomanly fuzz’ off and ended up in a psych-ward as they think it was attempted suicide. Luckily when this happened my Down’s Syndrome cousin Donatello was with her in the house installing a pump in her goldfish tank in his capacity as a goldfish tank engineer (something to do with getting everyone a job under the dewy eyed stewardship of ‘Derek’ Cameron) and he heard her squawking and was especially alarmed when, on finding her in the bathroom, the squawking got quieter with each ‘squirt of red blood’ – as Donatello put it – that shot from the slim long slit on her neck. Her cutthroat razor lay on the floor by her spasming hand.

Luckily Donatello knew what to do. He rang an ambulance immediately and give the address and a description of what had happened. And, by a grand feat of serendipity, one of Donatello’s ‘hang-ups’ as his mother (my eternally sketchy Aunt Elvira) calls it, is calling 999 and telling them that someone or other has had a terrible turn and that an ambulance needed to come right away. As Donatello goes among many of the in-laws doing odd jobs for them (in an act of pity, I surmise, as Aunt Elvira married her 1st cousin Geraldo producing Down’s Syndrome Donatello (while others say it was part of a multi generational Satanic sex thing, the reason they married)) he has a knack of memorising many addresses – which he recalls with perfect accuracy when he is on the phone to the emergency services.

My mother often has asked me if I can recall all my relatives’ addresses. I tell her I can’t and she reasons that, therefore, Donatello could probably beat me in an IQ test. She then usually follows this with, ‘Donatello’s obviously got brains to burn, compared to you Danny Pongo,’ or variations on this.

Sometimes she tells me she thinks my problems go way further than that of a Down’s Syndrome’s. And sometimes I like to think that one day she’ll do herself a terrible injury...just like she did today in fact. Which proves my powers of ‘empowerment visualisation’ (or whatever the hippies are calling it these days) are far greater than her’s.

So I spent a nice weekend with Bosco listening to ‘Acid Jazz’ and smoking pot. I had to pretend I was grieving over my dead mother while all the while wishing I could tell him what was really bothering me, which was: Kimba’s triplets, how we couldn’t pay for them, how in order to pay for them we were going to have to produce a horrible sex film with The Mistress of Kimba giving birth and how the worst of it all was that while she was in labour she would have to be sodomised by a pair of Alsatians while I had to drink some of the menstrual blood that she passed which would be collected in a dog bowl which would be held between her legs as she endured a terribly painful labour due to The Mistress kidnapping her after her waters broke then withholding painkillers while she had to endure the passing of three ‘of the worst type of STD’s you can get’ as the Mistress calls them (babies) in the course of the whole horrible perverse thing all to be recorded and sold to the highest bidder.

To take my mind off my awful life I told Bosco all about Porn-a-Likes. I told him the rules: That you had to find a porn video where the chick and/or man (pornstar) had to look like a recognisable celebrity. Then you had to make believe that the pornstar in the dirty film actually was the recognisable celebrity and make up an imaginary story chronicling how this particular celebrity descended into a life of drug dependant prostitution/sex slavery/private and bizarre sex orgies involving a particular elite/their own private individual sex pursuits which brought them to the edge of madness and/or the vulgar debasement of their own soul.

So Bosco chose this video screen cap. Bosco, like me, is a massive pornography fan, and therefore has a highly functioning encyclopaedic recall (verging on the electronic) of all (and they are many) the pornographic films that he has watched.

Below is Victoria Beckham posing so insincerely as only she can while receiving a dry frenetic bumming. The story (penned by Bosco) follows tomorrow.

After Bosco told me the story of Victoria Beckham’s descent into high class pornography he put this tune on the turntable:

and got up of the sofa to twirl dancing round the room, repeating – You gotta get up to get down, Danny Pongo. – So...grabbing me up of the sofa he started swinging his fists pendulum like millimetres above the carpet repeating – Get down, Danny Pongo! Get down! Which I did...

Oil Paintings Of X-Rated Picnics

I have been laid up with my leg in plaster. Today Bogdan turned up in his ace Ford Capri and he suggested I get some fresh air, as there was more than the faint whiff of cum and farts of me.
You stink, Danny Pongo, is what he said.
So we went for a run to the forest for a smoke and a picnic. Again his favourite topic of sex came up.

I’d like to know what it feels like to get fucked as a woman. Not like a woman, because I wouldn’t, but as one.
Why?
Because when they come they feel it all over for ages. When a man comes its quick and it’s all centred round your member the sensation. But it’s strange, as it feels so much better for them that women want it less often than men. Men want it all the time.
Maybe cos it feels better for them they need it less. For men as its more blink-and-you’ll-miss-it they have a greater need to recreate that transient state.
Makes you feel that the oversexed man’s just got a bad rap and in fact can’t help themselves. I’d just love it though, have a big man loom over me and slide it in. and fuck me quick.
I know what you mean from my porn viewing. A woman coming’s like a major tectonic shift, compared to a man, which is more like an ant’s sneeze in comparison.

Which brings me to my porn-a-like for this post.



Today's pornalike is Michelle McManus. Poor Michelle McManus. After her lacklustre crooning pursuits came apart at the heaving seams she turns her hand to porn to keep the kindling of her stardom going, with messy results.

Recently I have borne witness to many strange and otherworldly phenomenon while laid up in my mother’s. How I came to be here is a long story winding up in me falling off a house and shattering my kneecap.

In my mother’s, which is haunted, I have over a series of nights witnessed orbs, shadow people, objects moving of their own volition, wisps and black balls of malevolent energy.

One morning years ago we came down to find a little fire burning in the middle of the kitchen. Another time the scraggily bodies of 3 dead crows were found in the fridge. Back then mother thought it was me acting out in a surreal turn of adolescent rebellion. But as the time went on she came round to my way of seeing things and admitted there was a strange and not necessarily good force in her house.

I have a hankering for getting in a medium whenever I am back on my feet. When I mentioned this to Bogdan he warned ‘mediums can do more harm than good. They can provoke a spirit into greater acts of evil. They’re like the occult equivalent of agent provocateurs!”

Bang Bang Loot Loot

When I was on the phone with mother this afternoon she said something that made me think she had entered the menopause, - or the drying of the lake bed, as she likes to call it. She tells me that she is crying all the time at piddling, daft things. The other day she told me she started crying at a part in Home and Away. Seeing this is the only soap I don’t watch I didn’t know who the characters were she was talking about so I couldn’t empathise. She told me that the other day walking round the supermarket she burst into tears again --- I was walking past all these people and I’d look at an auld doll sizing up her tomatoes or a young family and I thought to myself imagine if there was someone at the door who arbitrarily told people they had no right to enter. – - And that made you cry? – I asked. – Yes – she sobs thinking about it again – it made me cry.

Yesterday morning when Aloysius was halfway through his story I flicked onto the news and saw the price of gold had gone through the roof. I thought about this for a bit then cursed my hesitance when, 9 months ago, I received a telepathic communiqué from Rueben that the economy was going to majorly hit the skids and to buy gold. -–- Paper money will be worthless once again and just like in Germany after WW1 people will be using it to clean their hole and paper their walls.

I didn’t think it would get that bad so didn’t bother following up on the gold tip. Now, like I say I am kicking myself. But, then like a bolt from beyond I recalled a story in the local press from a year or 2 ago that concerned gold that was deep in some caves just over the boarder. If memory serves there were some maneuvers by the devil eyed Peter Robinson to try and claim the territory was part of Northern Ireland and claim the gold for himself. I can imagine the scene. Him and Iris, surely some relation to the mad Pepperami from the ads, fornicating slowly in a pure gold Jacuzzi and afterward scooping each others’ shit out of a gold plated loo and rimming each other with said pungent, oily matter. I can also imagine what the Reverend Ian would’ve had to say about it were he in charge --- True Ulstermen will not take a step into the Free State...for the devil’s loot or anything else! –

Anyway, I got to thinking ‘its one thing owning gold stock – but real physical gold. You’d be the richest man on the street at least. Then I remembered the afternoon I spent drinking with the da (I’ll call him Donny) of Mad Otis downstairs. He had told me he had panned for gold in Norway (as well as being in the French Foreign Legion and a mercenary manning the diamond mines in Africa). I didn’t believe him, but then a week later when he was back up for another drink he produced pictures of him out in the Norwegian wilderness, shotgun at his side panning for gold. Others showed him outside a Norwegian café and another showed a young girl or indeterminate age standing against a bare wall wearing only her bra. That night he told me he used dynamite one time in a cavern in Norway. He was told by the locals not to as it would raise the ire of the local elves. He did it anyway and found no gold but did manage to break his collarbone before leaving town which he put down to those elves.

Donny’s dynamite story got the gears turning in my head. If he had some dynamite expertise then maybe me and him could get a team together to excavate the gold ourselves. To hell with Paisley, Robinson and the rest. I imagined us hauling ounce upon ounce of gold out of the depths saw myself 6months later descending some windy mountain road, wind in my hair, listening to this song booming from the stereo system of my gold car (that could also turn into an eagle if I wanted it to).

I also like to think of this song as the opening theme to a 9/11 centered soap opera. Just listen to the strings at the start and superimpose an image of the planes smashing into the towers.