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 

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.

I'm So Proud Of Being A Whore, Lay Me Down And Turn Me Out And Gimmie Some More

This morning I rose from my bed with a heart full of jubilation and a sure sense of self possession.

This song was in my head, so I put one of her’s on the turntable: big gobbed, ferocious faced Ms Bassey.

After I took a walk out up the hill to see my uncle.

On the way I met Mad Otis who was walking along whistling a tune.
- Alright Mad Otis. You settled into your new place ok?
- Aye. ‘Part from the fuckin head spastic up above me everything’s fuckin spat on.
- Oh yeh? Who’s the character above you?
- Some fuckin mongo. They all call him Bozo over there. I’ll hear him all the time pacing back and forth above me arguing with himself. Or singin Abba tracks. I saw him the other day at the shaps and I went over to him and said, “here would you keep it down. I can hear every word. You’re makin a fuckin racket.” ...and, here, Danny Pongo, he told me to fuck off!
- Oh my god, Mad Otis. Did he have a death wish or something?
- He was lucky this time. I told him if he fuckin slabbered again I’d tear his fuckin ribcage out and keep him prisoner in it.
- Good for you.
- I’ll stick my fuckin dick down his throat. See if he’s slabberin then.
The thought of this made me alternatively laugh and gag. I walked away from Mad Otis with my hand up to his face like celebrities do with the paps.
- Good bye, Mad Otis. Goodbye, - I spluttered.

The toothless hooker Izzy Hoyland was with my uncle when I arrived at his. He give her some money and she slinked away toward the lifts. I asked her how Fat Sandra was but she ignored me.

I only got sitting down then on his nice soft sofa when he asked me if I wanted to go out for a spin. An hour later we found ourselves spluttering up the Rocky Road (a very steep road, the steepest in Europe I heard) perilously close, in his rickety old rust bucket car, to stalling completely and rolling backward down onto the carriageway that’s full of zooming cars and lorries.

Halfway up the hill uncle reached behind him and took some electrical cord from the back seat. He put his arm out the window with it, let it loose, let it all hang out, all five and a half foot of it, and began to whip the bonnet of the car going: “Yah! Yah!” like he were in Ben Hur or was an old Victorian chariot driver trying to get his horses to go faster.

But we got up and into the Knockbracken Hills and had a zoom around, and when we drove back into the Fourwinds he let it go coming down a hill and his rusty old shit heap car began to shudder under the force of the velocity and I thought it was going to come apart, bits of it breaking off and flying away like a spaceship re-entering the atmosphere. But we survived.

On the way back to his I spotted Izzy Hoyland walking along nursing her balled up fists. Uncle swung over and asked her if she wanted a lift. She did.
I noticed her knuckles were bleeding. – What happened to you? - I asked her.
- Punter started gettin rough. So I fuckin whacked him. He went over, blood pissin from his face before he hit the floor.
- Good for you, I said.
- Good for you, said my uncle. - And you’re just lucky he didn’t whack you one back. You haven’t that many more teeth left to get knocked out.
I looked back then at Izzy Hoyland and she grinned a big dumb wide one and her brown tongue poked out the big hole between the teeth she had left.