People Take My Advice: If You Love Someone, Don't Think Twice

I came and the little Christian girl’s head ceased to bob, almost instinctively, and instantaneously I felt great guilt and an immense personal revelation dawned:

I couldn’t live without my Kimba, melted off face and all.

I sat and listened to this track, sitting by the record player weeping and stroking scabey, smelly Boke the Cat, who lay all curled up on my lap.

After I cum in the Christian girl’s mouth (whose name was Cleo) I give her my copy off Physical Graffiti (for her trouble) and told her to fuck off.

I decided I needed to get out of the house and so went off in my car slowly, zigzagging up the icy ungritted street I live on knocking wing mirrors off the other cars as I went.

I was headed toward the Lower Ormeau to the Rose & Crown pub to see if my pal Sweeney was there cos really I was sick of the other two (Bogdan &Bosco) finally and enough.

Having parked my car in the entrance of the local library, as I was afraid to take my motor any further down the particular street it was on as it looked even shinier and icier than my own street, I made my way gingerly along then to the Rose & Crown, making sure not to slip.

I was pleased to find Sweeney was in the pub then with his sister Gertie, who was on the G&T’s by the look of things. I snuck up behind him and did that tap-one-shoulder-loom-over-the-other-shoulder swticheroo and frightened the giddy cunt then when he turned to see it was me standing there.

So I joined Gertie and him for a drink and ended up sitting there all afternoon with them crying into my drink and telling them how lovely and sweet Kimba was. Gertie sweetly and tenderly stroked my leg and I played with her hair and twiddled her dangly Pat Butcher earrings.


Sweeny, who doesn’t like talk about emotions and stuff, tried to change the subject and talk about his war against the Scientologists. I humoured him for a bit then got bored and decided to instead listen to Gertie talk about how complicated William Burroughs is and how reading his books is like trying to do a Rubik’s Cube blind.

She was very scatty, Gertie. She somehow got onto how the other night she’d a dream her head were stuck in a toilet bowl for what seemed like years with only her nose above water so she could breathe.

After what seemed like years, as I’ve said, the face of Julian Simmons appeared above her. He give one of his sinister camp-paedophile grins then he turned and his fat, pale ginger arse planted itself down just inches from her face, blocking out all the light like an eclipse, and he proceeded to shit all over her, in her mouth and everything.

I asked her what she thought it meant and she said she didn’t know.

After a while it got obvious that she’d’ve bucked me, Gertie, but I still pined so hard for Kimba that I didn’t think I’d be up to it.

All I had was this song running through my head on a loop:

So I put it on on the jukebox and walked outta there.

My shite to bog-roll ratio is phenomenal. You would think then that one of the most pertinent elements of my shitting ritual is checking for toilet paper; especially in a public lav. Well, not so. When I was a boy I had a great deal of issues with taking a shite; started from one of the cruel and imaginative stories my cousin told me regarding my bodily functions and the over exertion thereof. Like, "You will get lukemia before you are 10 if you go for a number 1 more than once a week!"
So Wednesday was the day I would go to the toilet. The rest of the week I would hold it in. I had a special place for this. In the back garden behind the shed there was a little dark nook where the sun couldn't get to any time of the day. I would go there, after my lunch or my dinner, and sit hugging my legs, my knees bunched up at either side of my head and my heels dug into my hole.
Like I said, this went on for a month. After three and a half weeks my ma said I'd turned a sort of diahorrea colour. We were out in Austin's department store in Derry when she made this observation.
"You're a funny colour," she narked.
"His breath smells like a dogs arse," added my da.
My brother, who knew my secret, said, "He hasn't done a squeezy (eccentric family word for shite) in three days."
"Oh my god," said ma. "That's what's wrong with him."
I listened patiently to all of this. So patient in fact it bordered on the anaezthesitized, even for a gentle child like me. I was on an orange club biscuit. I liked to finish them in two bites, but that day, after a big plate of chips, my stomach did feel like a bucket of wet cement had been poured down my throat.
"What's the matter with you?" Asked my ma.
I looked at her, my head jerking forward in hardly perceptible little jerks. Then I gagged. Then I boked all over the table. My da scooped me up and threw me over his shoulder. He bolted down the escalator making apologies to all the old ducks scared out of their wits. I hung over his back, upside down, the diahorrea boke running down his legs. We got out onto the street and he held me over a bin and let me finish. Shoppers slowed to look and some even gagged themselves.
Later when I told my ma why I was holding my shite in for a week she rang my aunt and told her what had happened and that she should smack Claire, my cousin. After that I went regularly and I didn't soil my knickers quite so deeply or often.
So I have an issue with shitting. And therefore you'd think bog-roll played a pretty important part of my toilet experience. Not the other day, but. In a Mcdonald's lavvy, a putrified cheeseburger-boke aroma clung to the glacier tiles, I emit a watery one (you gotta in Micky D's) and in light of some short stop premonition go to check for bog-roll that I know won't be there and am proved right. I ended up using the Daily Mail.