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. 

 

So Let Your Cold Blue Lonely Strings Cry Once Again For Me

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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: