Sometimes I Can't Deny, Some Days Just Pass Me By

I'm sitting writing this in the central library so's to get out of my house for the afternoon. I usually won't go out in this heat. I don't have any threads to match this weather. I've been lying out on my big faux-leather sofa this last two days in the nip playing with myself, my big fan on the coffee table going hell for leather and keeping me cool. But the fan, my only fan, has gone and packed in and the place is hotter than a nun's cunt at benediction.

I put on my cardigan, bare chested underneath, and my wranglers and went at a slow pace down to the bus stop, my head bowed in mind of the dangerous rays of the sun at my eyes.

On the way I met Mad Otis and his da. His da was rocking the 70's hippy-provo look: long, greasy rat-tail hair and and one of those green canvas army jackets with some European flag on the arm. He wore a beard, that'd obviously been dyed jet black, and smoked a cheroot.

 - Was up the road gettin some lacks for mah doors, – yelled Mad Otis in my face.

 The da went to speak. He spoke like a drunken retarded man. His head slumped one side to the other, like a metronome in slow motion. I noticed the plate in his head, gotten as a result of Mad Otis dropping the radiator on his noggin that time.

 - Nothing against blacks, but did you hear there's an African deli on the Lower Ormeau got busted recently for havin a putrid sheep's carcass in the back and no runnin hot water? Said the da, drawling.

 - Aye! - Went Mad Otis quick and impatiently like he'd been waiting weeks to speak. - Fuckin rattin Vietnamese Crows in their display cobinat an' all, Danny Pongo! Fuckin rattin bastards were smogue'lin em here taped to their legs under their big African man-skirts you see them walkin about in! Fuckin' sellin you dead crows! Crows're the same fockin world over, fuck's sake! I go into Ormeau Park with mah fuckin crossbow and skewer a few of em on mah bolts – fuckin cook you one Pongo, tell you it'll taste the same as any of the ones those African boys got down in that deli of theirs!

 - Maybe you could open yer own deli, Mad Otis? Went I.

 - Might be a business idea in the workings there, Mad Otis, - Went his da. - See though, there's a lotta young people, young men getting sick now, Danny. See when you eat chicken and yer sick the protein travels to yer brain and collects there and makes you sicker.

 - See all the shite they put in the chicken, and all the food as a matter of fact, all the time: additives, colourings, all sortsa chemicals -

 - Correct! - Went Mad Otis cutting me off, the spit flying out his mouth, - To fockin bulk it out and give the livestock more weight an' all!

 - But that's not all, - went I pointing into the sky. - You see those big long streaks across the sky. And you see those whispy fingers coming away from the main body of the streak like ghostly branches? Well them's what you call chemtrails, Mad Otis. They are being sprayed outta private airplanes under the direction of a hydra-headed Luciferian New World Order that work behind the scenes of common times endevouring to control each and every little thing.

 - And this is the way they get started, - went Mad Otis raising his voice. - Spray us with fockin fly spray and get us all sick and weak. Well, they won't take me Danny Pongo! They're not gonna take me!

 Mad Otis's da then leaned in close to me. He was missing many teeth and his tongue was thick with brown gack. He said – Wow!

 But this is only a heavily edited portion of the discourse Mad Otis and his da engaged me in. In reality it lasted exactly 32 minutes.

One bus had passed me in the course of their talking to me but I were too nervous of both of them to cut either one off and go sprinting after it. Luckily they'd cut into a good deal of my waiting time for the next one, so I wasn't waiting too long in the stinking, sticky sun.

I was amazed to discover, when I got off the bus in town, that Belfast had now well and truly entered the 21^st century by acquiring itself 'The City Stink'. I have smelt 'The City Stink' in London, Dublin and Barcelona. It fills yer nose with a cool putrescence. It is most noticeable in the shade. There is every sort of bad odor on the aromatic palette of 'The City Stink'. And now Belshite's got one too.

I saw a lotta sites walking through the heat this afternoon. There were a lot of men, tough nuts, with their soft steroid muscles bulging underneath their latest up-to-date Rangers strips. I saw them only in the middle distance pointing this way and that, up & down, and at each other, heads red and shouting, their (for the most part) shiny bald burnt red heads gleaming like cummy wet bell-ends with a dose of something or other.

I had nowhere to go – just knew I had to get outta the boiling confines of my dirty little hole.

So I dandered up to Bosco's to buy a few e's, cos it were sunny, cos its in the sun, this type of year in fact at a festival down south, that I took my first e listening to Shakedown play this number:

So when I get home I'll stick it on, bang a coupla Bosco's e's and dance round my living room to it in the nip...  

Do You Believe In Monsters? Do You Believe In Demons?

The teddy bear excursion to the club didn’t go well.

In a fit of desperation we sojourned to Thompson’s where we hoped to find a couple of pudgy greasy faced students randy for a three-way (anal, oral, vaginal), - our
little teddy bears, sticky red cocks stiff and primed for carnal engagement with Izzy Hoyland’s yeasty raw-fish snatch.

How we got in past the Tarzan faced bouncers I’ll never know. Party Time was
clucking on ‘Adolph’s Amphetamine’ the crystal methamphetamine and wasn’t two steps inside the heavy oppressives of the Thompson’s hole when he starts helecoptoring round and round the dancefloor his fists balled at the end of his long arms spinning wildly and deadly, big as two sledgehammers, clocking two millies in the way. This gang of head-the-balls appeared from out behind pillars and each other a la Agent Smyth from The Matrix and descended on Party Time. Me standing watching, forehead hedgerowed with wrinkling deep furrows, I slink into the melee around the growing crowd dancing furiously in an encouragement of combat, egging on this strange ape-like man mountain, muscles stuffed into his tight translucent skin like a condom stuffed with walnuts.

This track played and Party Time went on a furious and violent melee attack. I swear if these people had’ve been sick like with cancer or some other sort of wasting disease the power of Party Time’s blows would’ve done more than knocked the taste outta the cunts’ mouths. A Thor like swinging power he would’ve knocked their heads
off their frames like Tiger Woods whacks golf balls off a tee.

I scored an e from one of the spidey yokes taking advantage of the confusion to emerge out of the back quarters to sell his contraband openly. It was a good e and it didn’t take me long coming up on it and enjoying the last few beats of Venetian Snares magnum opus.

After what was an indeterminate time dancing while wrapped up tightly into myself like I do, arms, head, specifically chin curled up in my middle chest, Party Time grabs me round the throat and hauls me off like a sex offender gimp on a promise.

In the alley outside a pair of pigs were scampering toward us, shouting loud questions as they went. Party Time legged it and so did I, and it didn’t take long till I overtook him – my prolonged burst of superhero like speed chemically encouraged by the beezer e.
- This e’s fuckin ace of spades Party Time, - I observed to Party Time.
- I wish I’d hove got wan, - he lamented.

We got as far as Custom House Square before we stopped to catch our breath. In my hallucinogenic, adrenaline soaked perceptions I beheld two opaque versions of us, me and Party Time, running along a few feet behind and when they reached us I noticed very briefly a twisted demonic rendering of our features and before I could fully take this in they turned and disappeared into our persons.

We sat by the old courthouse and I rolled us a couple of smokes. A few rollers came past but we were in the shadows and out of sight. We were silent, but I knew what we were both thinking: We’d have to up our pimp game if we wanted to make some coin.

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.

'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!)

Death Of The BT Couple

God in Heaven. I’ve just seen the latest instalment of that Vaseline tinted cunt saga of BT adverts they’ve got running with the incredibly irritating couple one of who is that guy from My Family, the one that got knocked down recently in Bristol. Just on one note, when I first saw My Family advertised in the Radio Times I thought it was a bland lighthearted comedy about Manson’s lot. When I read on I discovered to my disappointment it was a bland lighthearted comedy about a bunch of leukaemia potentials in South England.

Anyway. Back to these two.



I would like to suggest a number of conclusions to the (crook*) BT series. In the penultimate part of the instalment, the one I just saw, the pair are getting married. This is where my fantasy takes over. On the way to the ceremony in a horse drawn carriage she is taken out by a BT maintenance van driven by a Vodafone wielding chav who has stolen the said truck from the driveway of some burly BT worker, stabbing him with a set of his own BT issued car keys, ripping his belly open and stuffing a big Yellow Pages inside.
“Now dial every one of those fuckin’ numbers in there, you cunt, see how many dickheads you can sell a BT package to!” He yells before getting in the truck and driving away at speed.
He pulls into a side street sniffs a bag of glue, takes a couple of e’s and has a wank before he comes up on the pills, rendering his dick limp and flaccid. Racing through the awful Milton Keynesesque town where the annoying BT couple live he turns onto a street with much drug fuelled abandon smashing into the side of the carriage and running it up onto the courtyard of a BT call centre where they have a 2D iron statue of that annoying 90’s logo they had, that one with the man skipping along blowing a horn.



Said horn comes through the side of the carriage splitting her in two and revealing she was with child all along and it was a had- to-be-wedding as they are terribly traditional at the end of the day and have decided to get married to save on the embarrassment and also save the child the shame of being a bastard. The child inside her is still alive and is officially adopted by BT. In the years to come we see in a final final instalment of the terrible saga that BT Baby has been augmented with BT issue software, making it the first human ever to be hardwired with the internet, with BT as its server. It is hinted at but not made clear that the death of the child’s mother was all planned by BT using the chav as a Manchurian Candidate.

That OR one or both of the couple come down with terrible debilitating diseases, a multitude of them, due to all the wireless technology they’ve got in the house. They both heroically make it to the chapel on their wedding day and Cheryl Baker makes a guest appearance singing My Heart Will Go On,



while Neil Buckhannon (Art Attack) captures it all in the form of art.



She is still pregnant in this version and 6 months later their child is born and it is a BT cordless phone. When it rings in makes the Crazy Phone ring tone for the first few years and when one of the two go to pick it up St Anthony is on the other end.

Reuben communicated with me telepathically this afternoon. Telepathic communication is something we’ve been working on every time wee meet. It is safer than phone communications as they can be tapped into. Any time anywhere. He tells me to check out on Youtube the Michael Jackson ghost video captured by a CNN TV crew. Here it is. What do you think?



* I have issues with BT, cos they are crooks who overcharge me every month and won’t gimmie back the money I’m owed. I worked for the cunts too for 2 years and this isn’t going to be the second time I’ll let them fuck me over. GIMMIE BACK MY MONEY BT YOU CUNTS OR I’LL FUCK UP YOUR SKYNET FUCKING COMPANY!!!!


Also, Reuben also communicated with me that I should watch this video. It is, he tells me how he is feeling at the moment. MI6 have told him he has to launch a secret mission in Iraq, and if he doesn't he'll go to jail........