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

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. 

 

Doesn't Have A Point Of View, Knows Not Where He's Going To, Isn't He A Bit Like You & Me

"He always went with a jubilant spring in his step - but in his heart there swole a mushroom cloud on every horizon...and the possibility of one round every corner.
He had a car that never started anytime it rained, and he? he lived between worlds. It is lucky in a way, because the rain would depress him and make him drink. And so Mother Nature became his designated driver – raining on the car so it didn't start and preventing him from driving anywhere pissed."

There are people who ascribe some magic superstitions to cars. Like my Uncle Dudley; who in telling me this story this afternoon about the death his pal Billy Wheelbarrow in the summer of 1986 theorized that it were his car's bad luck (Billy Wheelbarrow's car's) that caused it to stall and crash on the M4 killing him instantly. 

Just like everyone knew would happen the car stopped working just as a heavy summer rain began and it crashed into a bus. 

Uncle Dudley said the downpour this afternoon, in an afternoon in 2011, reminded him, in its ferocity, of the rain that fell 25 years ago, in 1986, and that killed his pal Billy Wheelbarrow by stopping his car in its tracks on the motorway.

My Uncle Dudley is a great one for reminising. We get into arguments often when he reminisces as he does. Arguments over such things like: Where was The Woodstock Festival held? Uncle Dudley insists it were held on the Isle Of White...I go mental telling him it were upstate New York....sometimes my sis Micheesha tells me to let him be and let him think what he likes.

He is also a great one for the impromptu one liners. 

For e.g: We pulled up in Connswater's car park the other day. Uncle Dudley spied this cocky MILF exiting her car in the parking bay beside us. She'd a wide arse and a skinny waist... 

 ...Uncle Dudley yelled, - You love! You've an arse like a bag of spanners!

Uncle Dudley has bad nights and wakes from his sleep often. He screams out, “Leave Me Alone!” or “Fuck Off!”

Me and my sis Micheesha think he's done time and this is what he is shouting about. We think maybe he got a hard time in the clink and these are the terrible episodes he revisits every night in his nightmares.

But he takes me on runs up into the country. He races cross country over into Donegal. We appreciated the mountain ranges out there and take pictures, fucking with the perspective --- like I squat in the foreground, with some mountain in the background, lining it up so's it looks like I'm sitting with the pointy bit at the top of the mountain sticking up my hole.

Uncle Dudley loves this type of humour and loves it when the conversation turns blue.

Every time on the way home we end up buying cheap feags* and always, somewhere on the road, he gives me this micro-lecture about marriage, or rather about why you should never get married:

 - Why make one woman miserable when you can bring pleasure to so many?

 - Yeh, Uncle Dudley...Yeh!

Then he puts some Beatles in his cassette deck. And usually he plays this un, cos its his favourite:

*feags - cigarettes 

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.  


  

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.

He Said: All Things Pass Into The Night

After I got my money selling all Micheesha’s kids’ presents I took myself to Dundonald Ice Bowl for a skate.

It is something I haven’t done for years, skating. Gliding around there. Figures of 8. Round and round. Wheels within wheels. Not a care in the world. My troubles, with my shoes, left back in the locker room.

When I was done I sat in the grimy cafeteria overlooking the ice rink and ate one of their grey-meat shite-burgers watching this young scamp, 16-21, sail by, his nose in the air, very imperial and apart.

I sipped very slowly on my soda waiting till he were done and when he was I went over to him in the dugout by the rink. He were putting his loafers back on and fixing his hair in the mirror.
- Way you glide along on that ice you’re like a falcon in flight. – I said, right in his ear.
In the mirror’s reflection I could see his cute, tight smile stretch and part revealing by scintillating degrees his beamy white teeth lined up in that sweet young mouth of his like the most beautiful row of marble tombstones.
- That’s novel, - he said. – If I’m your falcon what does that make you…my prey?
- Could take you for a drink and find out?
- Lead the way, young gun…
We sailed about Belfast city centre in my motor looking for a place to park. All the while Shaznie (as he preferred being called) had his hand on my leg telling me all about his life and his beliefs.
- …so that’s why, in 2012 the world won’t come to an end, like tidal waves and beasts rising from the sea and all that shite, no…it’ll be like telepathy and free love and getting high of the heat of the sun, all those good things, dude. All not more than a year away and when it happens….all so beautiful.
- Dunno, babe. Never even that confident about what lies ahead 24 hours from now, never mind a year and a half.
- Ah, but no. It’s written. It’s going to be. We’re due a galactic alignment. This earth. Mother Gaia. We’ll shift dimensions till the 4th dimension. We’re moving into a photon belt. It’ll change our frequency vibrations. It’ll all be so different and beautiful. You can’t imagine!

Even after we’d had a few scoops in town and got back to mine he was still talking this balls so it ended up I’d to stick my fingers up his hole and that soon shut him up.


It turned out he was a good lay. Generous and receptive. Imaginative and yielding sweetly.

Later in he living room over coffee, 3 in the morning, being watched by a put out and confused Boke the Cat, Shaznie asked me about myself. I wasn’t even 3 minutes into those old mistakes and regrets when I break down and give a blow-by-blow account of Kimba and all that pertains to her. And he told me (Shaznie) that I had to put her to bed (figuratively) for myself if no one else.

The kindness (and wisdom) of strangers…

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.

Forgive Everybody And Remember

I ran out of all my money today at the same time I realised my motor had been sitting up there in that multi-storey car park in town for so many weeks (two), probably encased in ice and snow like some modern art resemblance and now it would probably never start again.

So I yet again returned to Micheesha’s looking my money. And if she didn’t have it, the slippery little poisoned eel, I would wreak a vengeance.

I had to go into town to get a bus to her’s. On the way to the bus I nearly went on my hoop twice on real slippery shiny patches of ice, - made so slippery thus dangerous by the fact they were the result of leaking gutters from the buildings all around, dripping all manner of shite and sewerage down onto the footpath to collect in big pools to then freeze in the -10 climate today.

3 old women went down like they’d been shot by Nazi sharpshooters on D-Day. Straight onto their backs. The first two were attended to quickly and graciously by passersby. And in those cases I would’ve done my bit there if it were required. The last old doll I saw falling though, she cracked her head on a jutting out brick from a building. Cracked her head like an Easter Egg and blood poured out everywhere and I being so mortified couldn’t even make believe it were syrup pouring out of like a Cadbury’s Crème Egg (and it were red instead of white anyway).

So I crossed the street and turned the corner, and was glad to find the bus to Micheesha’s was just about to take off. I was glad because if I’d’ve stopped to help the old doll I would’ve missed it. So it was a good thing I ignored her and a sort of inverted evil fate that allowed me to continue my mission.

Again at Micheesha’s the bitch stands there, shoulders flexed. Entry blocked, shoulders deep, upper half bouncing slowly from side to side off either side of the doorframe like a speedometer in flux.
- where’s my money, cunt.
- I don’t have it. I only have what I have. And you can’t take it off me! It’s Christmas!
- I’m gettin my fuckin dough today. I’ve no food for me nor the cat. I can’t get my motor outta the fuckin multi-storey in town. I’m fucked Micheesha.
- dunno how you’re fucked, Danny, cos I’m nat givin em out mate. As in I don’t give a fuck. Nat one. And I saw you comin’ up the path and I called Stupid Peter (her ‘partner’) and his brothers. So I suppose in that case you are fucked, Danny. And you will be by them!
In response to this sisterly petulance I kicked her right in the hoof (the vagina) and went booting into her house. Before I could get to the living room she grabbed my ankle (she were on the floor winded at this point) and pulled at my trouser leg imploringly.
- Please, Danny. What are you doing? – she wheezed. - Please don’t. Think of the kids! Here, - she wheezed some more while getting to her feet and handing me a tub of green face paint. – rub this on your face and put this woolly hat on and your eyes are all glassy and red so that’s good and go in there and tell em you’re The Grinch and you’re here to steal their prezzies cos I know that’s what you’re going to do ain’t it? but more than that: you wanna keep the FANTASY of Christmas alive for em Danny, don’t ye?
- I’m gonna steal em and sell em, yeah. Cos I gotta you silly bitch. But yeh to the other thing, too.
- right then, - she whispered, forlornly.

So I went in there and stamped all over the toys and dogshit and scared the kids half-to-death.
- I’m The Grinch, yahh, - I went.
They squealed.
- I’m The Grinch, yahh! Yahh! And I’ve come to take all your prezzies from under the tree cos you’re good-for-nothing mother ain’t paid her drug debts so now she can’t pay Santa for your toys. So I’m the Grinch and I gotta take them.
- No! – they screamed. – No! Please Don’t!

But I did and that’s all there was to it.

And later at home after another nice warm & tingly act of onanism it finally dawned on me that always, without fail, after I pull one out, I like to listen to a good tune. So I thought I’d create a Facebook page called ‘wank:tune’ then realised I couldn’t cos I don’t have an account.

Happy x-mas to one and all!

And here’s that tune I heard, one of empowerment and defiance, my gift from me to you:

Words And Pictures Simply Can't Describe...

It was a very wet day. The air was wet when I finally emerged onto the street late this afternoon having spent the last 48 hours in hibernation, eating Pot Noodles and snorting a lot of base (but not so much that I seriously depleted my profit margin).

I had also bought two quick little white mice from the nearby pet shop to let Boke the Cat chase round the house.

The little bastard was starving and was so very ruthless in his hungry pursuit of the first mouse. The second, cleverer mouse, went and hid under the big, imposing dark-wood chest of drawers my granny give me and stayed there. But the first mouse? He ran.

From the kitchen I could hear an almighty clattering calamity occurring, and I reckoned the stupid mouse were crawling across the ceiling, his sharp little claws dug into the paint, him hanging on for dear life. Boke meanwhile leaping and bouncing and leaping off every surface in an effort to get high enough to swat the courageous little thing from his safe perch.

Whatever happened, Boke the Cat proudly, and with not a little weary dignity, returned into the living room carrying the limp dead mouse. With great relish he sat eating it in front of the electric fire and when he was done he licked his lips and rolled all over the floor. I noticed as he came past me, strutting officially like he were in a procession of returning war heroes, the face of the captured mouse had this frozen, petrified look about it. Teeth bared, eyes wide, whiskers arched and stiff.

Anyway, I sat watching Boke eat his dinner and I gained a little emotional succour from it. It made me feel horny as a matter of fact: watching him split that mouse, arse to tit, and eating its innards out. It felt like hardcore cunnilingus. I got my dick out and had a wank to it.

Afterwards Boke boked up some of what he ate. He walked ahead of it a little and started scraping the carpet in a backward motion, flicking his paws backward like he were in his litter tray and he were trying to cover it up. I don’t know why cats do this. All the time, if they’ve had an accident, they always think they’re in their litter tray and try and cover it up. They’re stupid that way. When he turned to look at me, to see if I’d seen what he just did, I saw myself reflected in his eye, his fiery yellow eye, my reflection held there like a prehistoric bug in amber.

Words & Pictures simply can’t describe...

I waited till it got dark till I went over to my Sis Micheesha’s house in Sydenham. Round there I could see on the walls the old S.W.T (Sydenham Wine Team) graffiti had reappeared here and there.

I didn’t know what to make of this. At their height in the 80’s/90’s they were mysterious to me. A punk Freemasonry in my eyes. Turns out they were Glentoran supporters all along, but legend had it they carried revolvers and drank cheap port wine upstairs in the McDonalds in town.

I was still ruminating on this when Micheesha came to the door, standing there barring me from getting in her house.
- I haven’t sold none yet, - she said with balls of dry white spittle collected at the corners of her mouth.
- That’s no fuckin good, Micheesha, - I said.
- I know. But there’s no one – I mean.
- Gimmie it straight you fuckin wapped out, fucked up head melter. You’ve fuckin put half of it up your nose haven’t ye?
- no I haven’t. I swear. I promise you. I’ll have all your dough come Saturday. Promise!
- Micheesha, I’m gonna burn down this house, with you, your kids, your dogs, that fuckin halfwit boyfriend –
- Partner!
- That fuckin’ chip sniffer boyfriend, that fuckin gormless ginger walking cheese puff, I stabbed him he’d probably bleed Fanta, ginger cunt. All you. Dead. Burnt to death.
- I’ve got something I can give you. Probably tide you over?
- Better be money?
- I could tell you where Kimba is...

So she were in this park on the Ormeau Road, with all these other hippy cult looking types, all mental deficients by the looks of it.

Then I saw her. She were playing catch with this totally gorgeous looking bloke. She were wearing some sort of facemask similar to Paul Gascoigne’s when he went to Lazio, which was probably to do with the reconstructive surgery she were getting on her melted off face that I caused when I shoved her headfirst into her granny’s fire.

But that boy she were playing catch with were the bees’ knees. An Adonis. This song I thought I’d play when I got home. Then I nearly cried. But I didn’t. Cos I’m a man.

Trying To Make A Pound Out Of 15p

When I arrived home I could’ve nearly cried when I realised that change I dropped at the foot of the Moses’ tramp was all that was between me and the grave, save for bad fortune.

I raided my cupboards looking for something I could throw together for my dinner, but all I could finds, behind an empty box of Weetabix, was a half-a-tube of Jaffa Cakes. I forlornly returned to my living room and sat eating them and watching the news on the tele while trying to feed little corners to Boke the Cat, who turned his nose up at them.

Well then the little cunt could starve. And this situation just wouldn’t do.

So I had to make a pound out of 15p, as a variation on the song, and in order to get this done I went cap in hand to Bosco’s to buy some of his base.

- Danny Pongo, with his tail between his legs. Never thought I’d see the day, - said Bosco, laughing at me.
- Have the cops been here looking for me, Bosco? I asked.
- No. But don’t think I’ll be lying for you when they do show up. I’ll have you on possession with intent to supply if you tell them about me making it up here. Consider it the touts’ M.A.D, or Mutually Assured Destruction.
- I know what M.A.D means, Bosco, - wishing I could do a bit of mutually assured destruction on his hole, then by effect mine, but only so it meant fucking the little cunt up.
- How much you want?
- an ounce.
- on strap?
- yes. Gonna sell it with a 5er mark-up on a 10ers worth. Gotta get some coin together.
- I hear ye, - said the little weasel, casting himself in his own little hard-luck story.

I reckoned My Sis’ Micheesha would take most of it off my hands and the rest I’d sell on in little wraps here and there.

Micheesha’s house as usual was a fucking tip. Dogs’ shit in various sizes, shapes and colours sat like islands amidst a sea of kids’ toys. There was not an inch of carpet you could see.
- Micheesha, fuckin dogs’ shite’ll make your kids go blind if they touch it, - I warned.
- I’m getting a woman in to clean the day, Danny, fuckin’ drap it! What you wan’ anyway?
- Need to shift a bit of base. You interested?
- aye. Show us...

Micheesha’s a very thorough and particular little bitch and has not a crumb of trust for me, Danny Pongo, her little brother. So we racked up a couple of lines me and her so she could test it, and for the following hour and a half I’d to sit and listen to her list a number of grievances she held against every one of her exes, (not a modest number, men and women): the beatings, the rough anals, the thieving, the drug addicts, the alcos, - a compiling of miseries heaped upon miseries reamed off with an autistic’s fastidious attention to memory and a poet’s vividness, all her own terrible memorial from then till now.

After I got fed up with her talking I made my excuses and left, and she hit me with it at the door.
- I’ll get that sold this week. You hold out till then till I get you the dough?
- fuckin’ hell, Micheesha! No! I’m flat broke. Gimmie a score, and I’ll be back for the rest on Wednesday.
- don’t have a fuckin’ score, Danny!
- oh yeah? Well what were you gonna pay the fuckin’ cleaner with then? – I said, snatching her bag of the hall table.
- gimme that back you dirty wee cunt, - she said chasing me down her front path as I turned her purse over in the garden.
- there we go. 20 quid, - I said taking it from the pile of paper and coins. See you Wednesday.
- what am I gonna pay the cleaner with?! Danny? Danny! – she yelled as I walked away.

Ran Out Like Red Slush Puppy

The wise Tupac Shakur in one of his songs once alluded to the pleasure to pain ratio between the moment of conception (pleasure) and the ensuing 9 months of pain. Even with all his wisdom though I bet he could have never imagined the pain of trying to perform an abortion with a leaf blower. Brenda’s got a baby ain’t even got shit on that!

My sis’ Micheesha ran us up to Carryduff to a big garden centre where we hired a leaf blower. Afterward Kimba said she felt bad cos Micheesha kept going on about how she couldn’t wait till Kimba had the triplets. As she had three kids herself she liked to imagine that one day when ours were big enough they could all be friends, her kids and ours. Kimba had to pretend like she was all excited too.
- You’re a good little hustler, I told her. - You had her well convinced.
- You don’t understand, Danny. She’s all excited. She told me she’s getting all broody again.
- Well that would be a mistake, her havin another one. She better not think she’ll be getting more benefits from the government. Derek’s gonna stop all those benefits for single mothers. Knowing Derek he’ll make it that any child born to a single mother will be fed into a massive incinerator producing clean ’green’ energy in a grand magick ritual in honour of Gaia.
- Your type of fella.
- Away and fuck.

When we got home and got the leaf blower out of the box we were pleasantly surprised to discover it had a ’suck’ as well as a ’blow’ function.
- That’s good, said Kimba. - That means we can suck their brains out like that website about Bill Clinton says what happens in partial birth abortions. I didn’t know how it was going to work anyway if it could only blow up there. Would’ve blown me up like a balloon, Danny…hawr hawr hawr!
- Your eyeballs would’ve popped out and bobbed there like a fish on a hook. I would have gently tapped them back and forth with my finger tips, like a kitten with a ball of wool.

I got the bowling pin Bogdan give to me (that he’d got from his uncle who used to manage the Superbowl) from under the bed while Kimba smeared her cunt with Vaseline. I’d already racked up a couple of lines of Mephedrone that she hovered up, so’s to give her the horn. I kissed her deep and she got her tongue right in my mouth and I closed my lips round it and sucked, sucked it like I was sucking dick. She groaned and I shoved 3 fingers up inside her, everything squelchy as her fat gelled meat curtains yielded loosely and swelled in the middle like 2 slugs in transit.

Soon my fist was pistoning, wrist deep, in and out of her and she was arched and groaning deeply like Exorcist Linda Blair. Her head twisted sharply to the left and she eyed urgently the bowling pin that lay on the pillow beside her. I handed it to her and quickly withdrew my fist. She shoved the pin up there (Setting the cast, she squealed) and I got the leaf blower (sucker) turned it on and stuck it in an inch and a half or so. Her squeals instantly turned to agonised, convulsive wails.

Bits of our babies ran out like red Slush Puppy onto a big hotel towel Kimba had nicked from the Europa Hotel especially for the occasion. I wrapped all the parts up like a parcel and put them in a laundry basket.

Kimba lay mumbling on the bed. Her blood wet little stick legs were stiff with tension and wiggling. - Leave them there. We’ll divvy the parts up tomorrow. That fuckin bitch Mistress won’t know what’s hit her.

'mockin's catchin''

Micheesha came over today with my e’s. She walked in with big coconut shell earphones singing Crimson & Clover

- Crimson and Clover durgh-ner-ner-ner-ner-ner/ahhhhhhh/but when she comes walking over/I’ve been waitin to show her/ crimson and clover/ over and over//

She came into my hall and started spinning round and round in little circles like a fuckin eejit. When she stopped she tilted her head right back and then she began bobbing her head, very slightly, like she were having a slo-mo fit. She rolled her eyes back and her mouth, open wide, hung loosely.
It were as if she were going for the spectacular gaunt look the ‘scene girls’ have, like they’ve spooned ketamine into their coffee. She looked like one of those poor-unfortunate Romanian orphans you see every once in a while on the TV news rocking back and forth in their crib.
- Stop that immediately! - I scolded. – it’s like you’re mocking the afflicted when you get on like that. And you know what ma says, ‘Mockin’s catchin’. So watch out!’
- How is the auld cunt? –
- Don’t say that! She’s alright, apart from I think she’s starting to get the menopause.
- Ahh right. So she’s gonna be a even more of a melter for the next 6 months, then?
- Aye – I said.
Micheesha handed over the e’s. They were in a big jiffy bag. I held it up and looked inside it at them all.
- You gonna sell em? – she asked
- Some – I replied – the rest are for me. –
- Well take it easy on em – she advised. – remember last time, you went on a downer for ages. Remember a week into your blue I caught you pissin’ in the sink all over the dinner plates? –
- Aye, but so? What’s one thing got to do with the other? Depressed as you could ever be why would you piss in the sink? I was watchin the boxin. I didn’t wanna miss it. –
- Nah, nah, nah. You were so down you couldn’t tell the sink from the toilet. You were fuckin spasticified, man! –
- Don’t think so. Think your confusin bein depressed with bein blind.
- Nah. Remember the mornin after when you got in an' you told me you’d never take e’s again, then you took oneie ma's ladles and started drinkin outta the fish tank with it?
- How’m I meant to remember that. I was bingoed. Anyway I’ve a story to tell you that Aloysius told me. I can’t really make sense of it, but in tellin you it it might start to become clearer to me... -

Ebeneezer Goode And Me

Today my sister Micheesha telephoned. She told me she had someone with her and she wanted me to speak to them. She put this wee spidey cunt on the line then:

- Ai’ite – he said.
- Hello – I replied.

- Here, Micheesha wants me to tell you what happened to me on Saturday night, mate. I was at a party down on the Pass and this wee girl told me if I licked out her Jack Russell she’d gimmie 50 e’s and a blowjob.
- Did you do it? – I asked.
- Oooh’aye. –
- And did she come through for you? –
- Sorta. She gimmie the e’s alright but the blowjob was a wee bit sore on my cack. She’d just got braces fitted. It felt like I’d stuck my cack in a blender, HowhHowhHowh. -
- How’d lickin’ the dog’s bollocks work out? –
- Wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be, believe it or nat.
- What’d it feel like? What’d it taste like.
- Felt like fuck all. I just closed me eyes. Felt like I was flickin muh tongue over a big puffy nipple. Tasted like nathin’. –
- Did the dog come? –
- Nah mate. I don’t think he liked it to be ‘anist. –
- Gimmie the phone back, Slug, - said Micheesha who took the phone back off Slug. I held the phone away from my ear in the loud short muffled exchange.
- Did you hear what he said? – Asked Micheesha.
- Yes – I said. – so what? –
- So Slug doesn’t know what to do with ‘em. Asked me if I’d sell ‘em for him. Was wonderin’ if you wanted some thrown your way for you and your weirdo mates.
- Sure, - I said, before hanging up.

So Micheesha is coming over tomorrow with some e’s. Some for me that I’ll take, and some I’ll sell to my pals. Was never really big on e’s. I mean I took them weekends, nearly every weekend for 6 months, but I wouldn’t go mad like some of the ones I know, like Bogdan or Sweeney, who used to bang up to 15 a night. My limit was 3, then the cotton mouth started to worry me and I’d get it into my head that I’d had one of those mini-strokes. I’d go home then and put on this tune (every time)

and smoke a rocket so as to put the buffers on the come down – prevent breaking up on re-entry. The beginning of the end was one night when my arms began to disappear. They just disappeared into thin air, like a cloaking device had been activated. Cloaking device would be more accurate as a matter of fact. Because my arms didn’t really disappear – become totally invisible. More they went like the Predator and blended into the background. I remember holding both my hands out in front of me and being able to make out the pavement below through this swirly outline of both my forearms, rainbowing madly like a soapsud slick. The end – the final time I took an e in that long regular cycle - came a few weeks later in The Network. It was a club on North Street that stayed open to 6am. You couldn’t get any drink but there was always a U.D.Ah’er (or Womble, depending) standing in the shadows somewhere who’d be slinging e’s like a Burberry clad Pez dispenser with an infinite supply. The night in question I was sold a coupla duds and as soon as I felt that rush when they hit the system I immediately thereafter felt a strange hollow sensation like I’d been drained of all but my basic instincts, not in the Sharon Stone/Michael Douglas way, but like all I was capable of doing was breathing and walking. I left early, getting in a taxi with no plates. The driver wasn’t all there. I asked him to go to the Donegal Road and he ended up taking me on a mystery tour up round Black’s Mountain and all over North Belfast. When I got back he charged me 20quid and made me buy a sachet of ‘Liquid Viagra’ off him for 15quid. He had a lucrative night, the big dangly lipped retard that he was.

And that was that with me and e’s. Course I have indulged the odd night between then and now and I think with this batch I’m gonna have myself a good time too, (and make myself some coin as well!)