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!

What Would I Say If She Asks What's New? "Nothing What's With You? Nothing Much To Do"

Just like a fucking dick I went and blew all that money I'd swindled off oul Granny in the Old Folks' Home buying up cocaine and Russian Standard vodka. So there would be no date with Deidre for the foreseeable, unless, that is, she were partial to McDonald's, cos that's as far as my coinage would stretch.

Also, due to these frugal shortcomings, I have left myself short – again!

I had all but a fiver to my name but still decided to take the bus into town so's to save my legs. Another reason for doing this was because the last time I were standing at my local stop a woman got off and gimmie her all-day ticket. This happened twice. Twice in a row. At this I felt very blessed. So much so that a kind of idolatry took hold, a holyman's convince-ment that this would happen a third time – and ascribed to this believe the classical holy trinity.

But it did not happen. And I had to pay the fucking larcenous £1.70 to take a ride over 2.5miles, if that. Fuck you Translink Metro buses. I didn't even find change on yer seats or under em – not down the aisle nor stuck down the connects in the long back seat – and I only got on yer fucking rolling extortion wagon so that this might happen....Though, I have to say, when the kind lady didn't step off the bus that third time today to offer me her (free) all-day ticket, I felt my heart sink, knowing a treasure trove of silver & shrapnel did not await, knowing it intuitively – for the magic trinity had been prematurely snuffed.

I dandered through town. Starving I was. I used this whirring hunger to hone my survival acumen, imagining it as one of those spinning, sparking wheels people use to sharpen swords on. I went past a stall with a man selling counterfeit Ben10 shite. He were shouting, - Five lighters for a poun'! - and I remembered back to when I were younger when mother led me by the hand round town round “all the shaps! Lookin for a bargain!” and I used to hear these men shouting “Five lighters for a poun'!” and I remember there was a WAY they shouted it, it weren't so much like they were making an offer, more like they were boasting about it. I remember thinking:

These men have all just landed themselves a bargain; a bargain of a lifetime by the sounds of it. They have been waiting out the back of some warehouse, some lighter warehouse, and they all, to a man, have been gifted 5 lighters for a pound. And now they are standing in the middle of the street shouting about it, like a William Blake lunatic loudly describing his visions or a newly converted religious fanatic pledging his devotion to some extraterrestrial hundred-eyed deity. Some even set up a stall to show off how many they'd bought...

...And then I had a brainwave walking along: You could buy up a loada those all-day tickets – photoshop the dates (which is how the drivers know you purchased them that day) print em out, scrunch em up a bit to get them authentic, then sell em on for a 1/3^rd of the price...

So I dandered back home, back to my 'work station' to map out my plan.

My feelings were happy and my mind empty as I went back up my street. I started getting a hard-on imagining all the fresh fanny I'd get to slice after I got rich off my new idea. But in the ennui of my mental triumph I once again experienced a dark bleed-in of all the guilt I felt at swindling Imaginary Granny in the Old Folks' Home. It were a guilt exacerbated by the cocaine comedown that no amount of grass (bought for the purposes of mental comedown buffer) could shield me from.

But then, ahead of me, I saw Mrs Mulberry struggling along with her shopping. The beginnings of my penitence hand delivered! So I jogged along, took the old duck's bags with a smile and carried them all the way to her dining room table. And I didn't nick a thing. Sat and had a cup of tea with her as a matter of fact.

She asked me what I were doing with my life and I told her that it didn't matter what, in the here and now, but it WAS important that I felt it were gonna change...someday...only into what I couldn't tell right now...in this moment in time.  

Love Me Or Leave Me Baby, Either One You Wanna Do...

I woke up this morning my face stuck in my cornucopias dusty ashtray, a gubful of spent fag butts and red weepy eyes, lids pebbledashed with debris and a mascara of nicotine smudging my lovely big shiny cheeks.

I made a cup of coffee in the kitchen and drank it red hot while watching the mongrel out the back taking a slow and determined trembly shite on the vivid-green springtime grass and I thought to myself, ‘this is the springtime of my dollar and cent,’ meaning, in my hallucinatory and philosophical bent of the morning, that my fortunes would be collapsing around my ears.

Party Time has been AWOL for a week. We parted on contentious terms when I suggested he wasn’t cut out for the pimping game and him retorting that he was more than. Then he kidnapped Kimba.

We kept her prisoner for a couple of days until she escaped, nude, out the bathroom window. Mrs Mulberry was out stroking her cat and nearly dropped dead of a heart attack when she saw her naked person emerge onto the street to run in circles screaming her head off and acting the loon.

- They tried to brainwash me/brainwash me. They tried to brainwash me like before, - she went hysterically, attracting people out of their houses with her shrieks of insanity. I assume she were having some sort of LSD flashback to when her elderly child sacrificing witchy foster parents took her ‘over the rainbow’ .

I stood spying on proceedings from my front room upstairs. Party Time stood at the front door, his muscular arms folded machoesque across his big barrel chest. Even from upstairs I could sense the crackling in the air, his fly mind processing imminent aversion tactics.

Kimba eventually tired herself out and fell half fucked across the bonnet of a car, buck naked and flaked out. Then some roly-poly Sunday morning church-goer from across the street comes the Good Samaritan and goes up to her real slow with a blanket held out at arms length like he’s an adventurous animal hunter approaching a dangerous armadillo, and this blanket of his was some ugly fluffy polyester thing with a classic picture of Gentle Jesus on it surrounded by Disney characters. At this point Party Time moved from pondering to action and went up to the Nice Man.

- Yo! Hampty Dampty! - He went. The Nice Man flinched startled and looked round. Party Time went, - Yo most ceaze and dahsist! Thas skinnie arse on tha caar as a danger crominal! She hos swollowd a danger soicide bumb, she as an agont of ALLAH!!! - Screamed Party Time resembling The Predator, the epic noise of his screaming naming of The Prophet making the birds take flight from the trees and fawns in Indo China look up suddenly from their lakeside supping - no doubt.

Informed of this information the Nice Man turned on his heels and took flight back into his nice little Hansel and Gretel house, screaming to some unseen occupant, probably his equally roly-poly red cheeked wife, to call the minister. Party Time scooped Kimba up and put her over his shoulder. He came back in the house, took my keys of the hall table, then put her in the back seat of my motor. He sped of with a customary wheelspin, and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the pair since…!

Opiate Utopia Is Hotter By The Hour

So I took Party Time up to my Uncle’s to show him what he had to work with in Izzy Hoyland. He wasn’t all that impressed.
Afterward in my motor driving back to mine he said in his foreign accent, - She os fockin ruff, Donny Pongo!
- Don’t worry Party Time, - I said – with that money you got of my laptop we’ll fix her up good as new. Our uncle has told me in her day she was hot stuff. It was when she charging men to plug her did the looks start to fade, -
- It os often thah way, thot wan a beetch starts to sell her snatch* ot os not long till she stort tornin’ into a hard-leg**.
After he explained that to me I said, - That’s right, Party Time. But maybe Izzy Hoyland’s time has come round again, maybe its time we took her outta retirement to spread her flaps once more, -
- Hoah Hoah Hoah Hoah Hoah, - went Party Time, the noise of his big laugh tumbling from his head like rocks down a mountainside.

Back at mine we put on some music (which I won’t be posting as I still don’t know if previous Youtube embeddings caused said videos to be deleted from there [look at last entry]) and had a dance to it. It was Scissor Sisters – Invisible Light…

…fuck it…

After we fed ourself with scraps from last night’s stew me and Party Time went out with his air rifle into the back yard to shoot little birds out of Mrs Mulberry’s lovely big Ficus Tree to feed to Boke the Cat. We got three little birds, dead there in the yard, lovely and still and peaceful with clean dark holes
shot right through their colourful fat little cute feathery chests – all clean kills with no pain – a tribute to Party Time’s marksmanship and uncruel way (with animals anyway). We took them back in and I put them in my blender with a few vitamin tablets and got them all mooshied up while Boke curled and rubbed around my leg, his purrs sounding like a revving muscle car in slo-mo.

Later we took a run up to Sydenham to my sis Micheesha’s house. Since last time we have made up me and her and I have apologised for selling her kids X-mas presents and she has give me the money she owes for the base I sold her.

Micheesha was having a party and some of her unsavoury ‘bitches’ were there. But I ended up having a good night, getting a laugh telling them about when I was a kid
mocking up Children In Need forms and going out of the neighbourhood to get unsuspecting grannies who didn’t know me to sponsor me for a tenner telling them it was going toward paying for the defence fund of a 6yr old girl from Africa up in court for being a witch and facing the death penalty. When I told some of Micheesha’s bitches about all the coin I made this one, dumb as a toaster, figured I’d still be a money bags.

Hawr, Hawr, Hawr

Some way through the early hours, coming down from the e’s, this bitch took a fancy to Party Time and ended up giving me a blowjob in the toilets while she had her finger up his hole caressing his prostate. Suffice to say, result were messy.

Yeh, a good night.

Now That You Found Yourself Losing Your Mind Are You Here Again?

I left through Mrs Mulberry’s back gate as arranged and ran up to the top of the entry to take a juke round the corner onto the street to look for that peeler. Just as I did he exited my house with Kimba following close behind. She was nodding non-stop and really quick. She smoked her feag right to the cork and lit another one. I stared at her hard, nearly stared a hole though her, and tried to telepathically communicate with her to stop acting so strung out. A look of concern and pity passed over the peeler’s face and when he turned to head back up the street again I noticed that it was unmistakably Pigcop Stevenson who done me for blasphemous vandalism a few weeks back.

I ran a little way back up the entry again and hid behind a wheelie bin. I peeked my head out over the top of the bin to see that he passed. Once he was halfway across the top of the entry he stopped, put his nose in the air, and breathed in deeply. He did it again then shook his head and walked on.

I let a couple of minutes pass then ran round to my house. Kimba was out the back sitting on her arse on the grass with a big Minnie Mouse towel between her spread legs that were placed at a 90degree angle. There were blood all over the towel, over Minnie especially. It was as if Goffy had come up and, with a revolver, blown Micky’s brains out all over her face.
- What’s the matter, you silly cunt? – I asked.
- I’m bleeding out, Danny! I think you may have really done some damage to me. I think you’ve tore my innards out.
- Don’t be darft! The bleedings stopped now. Look. Sayin that it’ll take more than one of your tampons to stem that flow if it comes again. You’d probably need to stick one of your Ugg boots up there.
- There’s nothing else goin up me that’s bigger than a dick, or at most a fist.

She started to cry then.
- I think I might really miss them as well.
- Miss them? Our babies? - I said. – You can’t miss what you never had.
- But I’ve had them forming inside me for so many months and weeks, I feel like I’ve had something removed. Something vital.
- Nah. Wait till your later years. When you got tumours attached to your kidneys like limpets on a rock. Then you’ll put things in perspective.
- That doesn’t make any sense.
- What I mean is tumours on your kidneys are gonna kill you. Children, 3 of em, and all they’ll cost you, you may as well be dead, especially with your prospects. So both things are better removed. The difference between tumours and children is that the host attaches an undue amount of emotional attachment to the latter.
- Here, - I said, - listen to this, - I said putting my I-pod in her ears and putting it onto a track she liked:

Then I said as I turned up the volume for her, - After you listen to that I’ll tell you all about my morning with Mrs Mulberry.

Meeting Mrs Mulberry

As expected, our exploits did not get a mention on BBC Newsline, but Kimba was still mad that I ripped my jumper.
- You’re a fuckin’ dick, Danny Pongo - moaned Kimba. – They’re gonna get your DNA of that. You’ve been inside for fucks sake. They’ve got your DNA on profile.

I felt like I was going to boke. I left, headed toward the bus stop on the main road, when a peeler appeared at the top of the street, coming round the corner. I turned on my heel and pulled my peak cap down over my eyes before remembering the other end of the street was a dead end and I couldn’t go back into my house as I was afraid John Law was going to pay me a visit.

I got to the house on the corner, number 49 with the neat blue numbers painted on the gate. Who lived here was a kind old lady called Mrs Mulberry who stood at her front door all day stroking her cat and staring off into space and who also put her Christmas Tree up in September.

I found an old student card in my wallet and in an officious way opened Mrs Mulberry’s gate and (in the same manner) walked up her short path that was bordered delightfully with colourful and well kept flowers.
- Mrs Mulberry, I’m from The Government, - I said quickly flashing my student card before her faraway eyes. – I’m from the Energy Saving Division and I need to inspect the power source for that Christmas Tree.
- Come in, - she said, bemused.

I went into her small front room. Everything from the carpets to the curtains were stuck in the ‘50s, including a very old fashioned tele where you could pull two slidy doors across to meet in the middle so’s to hide the screen. I reasoned that in the olden days it was considered that you had ‘no class’ if you owned a tele.

I got down on my honkers and looked at the plug for the tree lights for a good minute or so. I nodded my head now and again like I were having a conversation with it and it & I were agreeing on the facts of something. When my knees began to get sore I shot up turned to Mrs Mulberry and said,
- That’ll be all for in here. Now I need to go and check your oil tank.
- I don’t have an oil tank.
- I’ll need to check your grass then. I am from the Energy Saving Division and I need to inspect the back of your property to establish its suitability for a wind farm.
- You could inspect the back of me, check my suitability for a wind farm. The smelly gusts that issue from my mud hole! – said Mrs Mulberry slowly waving her hand in front of her face and pursing her lips in mock disgust.
I stifled a laugh and said, - Maybe in the year 2525, Mrs Mulberry.

Outside I arbitrarily walked round her garden bending down to feel the grass every few steps.
- This house is excellent for a wind farm. Now, Mrs Mulberry, I must get going. Do you mind if I leave through your back gate. Just I saw a dangerous looking dog out on the street earlier and I don’t want to go out the front.
- Of course, son. But if you wouldn’t mind, its, you see I’m very lonely after my husband passed away a few years ago, and I especially miss our dancing. I haven’t had anyone to dance with since he died. If you wouldn’t mind stepping back inside with me here to dance to my favourite record...?

Inside she put this number on her turn table. I took her hand in mine and gently placed the other on her frail bony right buttock. Then, as I began to notice the smell of TCP rising from her old body, we swayed slowly to the music.