The last few days I’ve been adjusting pleasantly to the company of my adopted housemate, Aloysius. He likes it pronounced A-LO-ISIS. I say pleasantly because the last few days he has drawn my attention to this video:



And last night he had a paranormal experience with me. I have often glimpsed out of the corner of my eye orbs and figures and shadow men.
Ideas of some humanoid afterthought will flit through my peripheral vision later to be regarded with the same distain as the fleeting daydream of a no-strings adulterous afternoon tryst. Last night I had confirmation. Last night Aloysius saw the same thing I did – namely a tiny diamond shaped orb float past his face. I first saw it descend though the ceiling. It floated over toward my feet and stopped there, bobbing in the air for a few seconds before disappearing into thin air. A minute later Aloysius declared loudly that an orb materialized at the end of his nose, floated away from his face and into the TV.
THEY’RE HERE - declared Aloysius
I saw that too, I said.
As we’re tired now and in a state of unconscious more attuned to the paranormal realm we may be on that bandwidth that allows the more subconsciously aware to tune into that frequency that's really between dimensions - then so what we saw might’ve been the construction of a meme taking shape finally.

Luckily and quite by coincidence, some would say synchronicity, I found this article.

Aloysius is a welcome arrival in loneliness. His story is to be told at a later date. Our conversations proceed thusly:

Adrian Chiles vs. Genghis Khan? Who’d win?
Genghis Khan, I’d answer. He has better weapon skills, I’d wager. But Chiles would give him a run for his money. Especially having to find his way around the assault course that is Christine Bleakley’s bony frame. He might be fast and resilient

and he'd also have the element of suprise, said Aloysius. Whenever he's on the tele' da always said 'he's a face like a dog's arse.'

So our daily long conversations are like the verbal equivalents of Paul Klee pictures.

Would you ever fuck a girl in a wheelchair?
The Christians have missed out on a great catchphrase: Jesus Please Us.
Fantastic, I’d answer.

He has proposed we go out in mushroom season and collect some up. Mushroom season isn’t long off. End of August, September. I’ve heard off a smackhead all the best places to go. It was one of the last things he told me before he died and it would be all over inappropriate if I was to reveal his final words to me.

Maybe on the mushies we’ll encounter some more orbs. Maybe this time they’ll reveal themselves to us like they did in the story told above. In the meantime I’ll indulge as wholeheartedly as a art school student in an alabaster factory in mine and Aloysius conversations:
Earlier, reading a riddle of a pack of fag papers:
A man pushing along his car stops at a hotel. At that point how does he know he’s just gone bankrupt?
Spiritually or morally bankrupt?
...he’s playing Monopoly at the time.

R.I.P

I just watched this video:

It is from the Venetian Snares album Doll Doll Doll.

Halfway through – you’ll know where, I had the feeling I’d been momentarily possessed by a djinn. I don’t know why but I thought the spirit of the infamous Arabian demon had entered me. When it was over I let out an almighty sneeze

. Gazoontite! And the feeling I had a djinn in me was no longer there.

Today I went round to my mothers as her brother (my uncle) died today. He was an alcoholic and had a bad end. In the last few days his legs had turned black and last night hairline splits had opened up along his calves and under his knee and the nurses had to bandage him up. The bandages were pretty ineffective and puss from his black legs started to seep through and by all accounts it was a mess. It looked like gangrene had set in. mother said that if he didn’t die soon he’d have to have those legs off.

It is a strange thing. My uncle was well off but had humble beginnings. Over the years he lived in many countries before settling in London. There were rumours he’d worked for MI5 in the 80’s. Whatever the truth of the matter, it is the case that some time in the 90’s he started up his own security firm. One of the gigs he got was doing the security for Wimbledon. One time my aunt sent my cousin over to work for him over the summer. One of his assignments was to look after Liz Hurley at some AIDS charity event. A cunt, he told me.

When the money started to roll in he started to hit the sauce big time. He would ring my mother’s at 10/11 in the morning when she was at work and leave slurred rambling messages on her machine. He was drunk morning, noon and night. He told my da once that there was always alcohol in his system and that he was getting worried. He came over one X-mas and he had turned a greenish colour. 6 months later he told everyone he was dying. They told him he needed a new liver and his kidneys had given up the ghost as well. Months he waited for a donor. By the time they got one for him he’d crossed the rubicon and the doctors decided he was too weak for a transplant. And today that was it. He passed on.

I compare him to my other uncle, his brother, who lives here in Belfast. His fortunes are a great deal less auspicious than the one in London. He knocks back the Tesco own brand regularly; 2ltr’s a day for a fortnight sometimes. He is poor and doesn’t eat for days. He has drunken hallucinations, and once attempted to abseil down the side of the highrise where he lives to escape murderous dwarves that had entered his flat though his washing machine. But the fucker has never suffered a flu a cold or even a headache the last 30 years (apart from the obligatory hangover head thump). It’s something. There was the one in London, drinking Hennessey and good wine day in day out and this one over here pouring terrible cheap stuff down his throat and who survives it? Who, even with their luxurious means and good living allows a terrible addiction to take hold and decimate them? The gods favour no one!

It has made me think twice about my own drinking. Its said it runs in families and mine has its fair share of lushes. I do love to drink. But its whether I could live without it is the question. At the minute its one I don’t know the answer to...
Here’s a song my uncle liked. I’m going to put it up here for him.

Waiting Room Soundtrack Killing Time In The Terrordome

Went to see my sister this afternoon up in Sydenham to sell her some pot. There’s a drought up her way, she told me on the phone last night, so I told her I’d sort her out no problem. The boyfriend was there when I arrived and was just headin off. Fuckin hell he’s a cunt. Real sneery gub on him. 6 months into them going out I made an unannounced visit on her. It was Halloween and she was in the kitchen fixing up the kids costumes for them. She’d a big black eye and I asked her what’d happened. She told me it was makeup from the funny faces she’d done on the kids. It would’ve been obvious to anyone that her eye was all swole up. So I pressed her eyebrow and she flinched. Then she started getting creative. She told me she were hammering a lambeg drum he’d brought in and had hit herself up the face with one of the malaccas. But he’s from the Falls, I reminded her.

To be fair I haven’t see her in that state since. And she is a mouthy wee bitch, my sister. Not that that’s an excuse. But he is a hateful lookin cunt, though. A big ginger fucker. He’s like a big walking Wotsit. He’s got that big nasty ginger gormless thing happening. He’s a bit like Max Branning in that respect. If I find he’s hurt my sister again I’m gonna stab him, but I think all he’d bleed is Fanta. Ginger, marmalade bollocked cuntrag!

In other news, FUCK OBAMA! I see, here, that the great galloping messiah has given all the big pharmaceutical companies legal immunity from prosecution if their formaldehyde/birdshit/mercury laced vaccines cause side effects including schizo’ like turns and various cancers. Some of the side effects for the young will make autism look like a mid-afternoon supermarket tantrum. This article reckons that some Friday, soon, Friday being his bad news ‘dump’ he’ll declare that vaccination against swine flu should be mandatory. So yeah --- CHANGE, Obama, you cunt – change sides, change the mob, change the rhythm and delivery, change the eye line and change the soundtrack, but you’re still spouting that oligarchal mantra of soft fluffed happy subjugation from the Senate to Sudan, bitch! To quote a line:

people who believe in politics are like people who believe in god: they are sucking wind through bent straws.

Also, Shirkers from P.E beware! Now in the UK, London in particular, people putting up anti-2012 Olympic posters in their homes may be subject to raids (ON THEIR PRIVATE PROPERTY) by the filth! Jesus Christ; I’m so mad I could shit a wasp!
Time for something calming I think:

For Apocalypse Watchers: Choose Your Poison

There’s much to tickle your fancy out there this week.

First of all:

1. Death Of The Dollar.

‘America is dead come September’ is what some people who know stuff about the economy are saying. Lady Liberty cannot pay her debts and now all her children are going to go insane. There will be unfettered animalistic violence in the streets. Just listen to what the Rev. Manning has to say about what’s in the pipeline here:



2. Swine Flu Shell Game – It’s The Vaccine That’ll Do You

So the MSM (Mainstream Media) are telling us that possibly 1/3rd of Britain’s population will succumb to the swine flu and die. So take you vaccine shots, yes? NO! An Austrian journalist named Jane Burgermeister has brought a lawsuit against the UN, WHO, and the US Government. She claims that the worldwide rollout on the swine flu vaccine is actually a mass extermination programme. She’s going to have ‘em for attempting to commit mass murder. The fact the vaccine won’t be going though proper trials before your GP sticks you with it has made up my mind on the thing. They’ll have to tie me to a post and shoot me before I consent to have their deathneedle come within 10 feet of me. Here’s Jane talking about her agenda here:



3. WW3. Yes That Old Chestnut.

Israel says they are to bomb Iran. Iran says they will engulf the entire World in “brutal fire” rather than to ever “kneel down” before the “Zionists”.

Russia/China say that if Israel make strikes on Iran their response will be “World War”.

Israel have deployed warships across the Red Sea in what all on sundry are seeing as a serious preparation for strikes. Netanyahu tells Obama at the G8 that if the US won’t take care of Iran “we will”. And as a result Syria will come to the aide of Iran, as would Turkey. But as Turkey are a member of NATO, under this alliance the US and Europe would have to come to their aide against their allies the Israelis. It is all one big hullabaloo – to put it mildly. To coin a phrase from the great Maj. Smedley Butler, war is a racket after all. And as noted over at Politically Confused, the Rothschild’s will be bank rolling all parties, as they did in the American Civil War, WW1, WW2...

Scientologists Tried To Steal My Hat With Their Wind

I see the Scientology Mengeles have put up a banner ad over there. So in order to balance out the ‘info war’ I will post here a picture of a victim of Scientologist dogma – that is, withholding from the sick in mind and/or body ‘evil’ pharmaceutical drugs.



This poor unfortunate here was Lisa McPherson. She was 32 at the time of her sad death. She was underweight and severely dehydrated when she was found. Her body was covered in bruises and bug bites. How this state of affairs came to be was that some time earlier, a week or two before, she was involved in a car accident, which she walked away from with minor injuries. But she did however proceed to go batty, stripping off all her clothes and dancing around. The doctors at the hospital she was brought to said there was nothing wrong physically as a result of the crash, but that she’d need to be psychologically reviewed. This is where her handlers from the Church of Scientology, of which she was a member, stepped in. As their religion didn’t believe in psychiatry they were going to take care of her themselves. They took her to a hotel (that they owned) and kept her in solitary for ‘Introspection Rundown’. Leading her to deteriorate into the sorry state seen and described above.



I think to myself, with a little shudder, how the lure of Scientology with its talk of aliens and galactic war would have been something that might’ve had an impression on my young/teenage mind, captivated as it was by tales of alien races living under Denver Airport and secret gov./et deals. I am glad the boggle-eyed freaks hadn’t set up shop in Belfast, like they have now on Gt. Victoria Street, when I was 13-16.



My pal Bosco, a cobbler, took a great interest in investigating their operation in Belfast after he saw this Tom Cruise video.



I told him I wasn’t afraid of them and that we should just walk in there some afternoon and ask to take one of their personality tests. He told me I was:- incorrect if I thought we could just waltz in there like a pair whose arse don’t touch the seat. They are dangerous and ruthless and above all well funded. We will have to think of a greater ruse if we are to infiltrate and really reach the belly of the beast re The Scientologists --- this is the way he talks.

So we decided on doing a little standoffish reconnaissance. One afternoon, when heavy rain was forecast, we marched across the Albert Bridge toward Gt. Victoria Street. I had that Jerry Fielding score from the big shootout finale at the end of The Wild Bunch in my head. I felt like William Holden.

We reached the top end of Gt. Victoria Street where their Headquarters is. We stood across the street from it hanging back on the forecourt of the old disused BP. Bosco had a novelty Spiderman telescope his cousin got off the front of a comic and give to him for the mission. At that range it wasn’t too bad. We could see clearly through the first floor window above that old record store (?) that used to be there. It looked like there wasn’t too much activity so we went to cross the road when a gust of wind flew by tearing my lucky baseball cap from my head. I call it lucky cos when I have it on playing online poker I win as much as I lose. When I don’t wear it I can’t get a single good hand. So I blindly dashed into the middle of the road after it and retrieved it from the white line where it had rolled to. I narrowly avoided being hit by a Virgin TV van and when I returned safely to the pavement I tripped and cut my hand. When I gathered myself and more firmly attached lucky cap to my head Bosco nodded in the direction of the window. Standing there was a very plain looking nerd sporting a bowl haircut with ambitions to be bouffant. I feel, even now (this happened 2 months ago) that this geek had exercised some degree of telekinesis upon me – tossing my hat off my head. That or the Scientologists have weather control technology causing the wind.

So far we have no future plan of action. I might suggest to Bosco that we masquerade as aliens from that sci-fi novel they’ve got out. But that would come with the risk of them thinking you were the real deal and assigning to you buckets of responsibility.

But there is a tale of madness beyond their weirdo mantle. A journalist I know tells me that when you roll past that place late at night and they’re having their meetings, all the cars outside are Mercs and Jags etc. its his feeling they’re the New Freemasons. I’ve heard the first thing they do when they set up in a new town is flatter the local police force. They organise nice big banquets for all the bigwig rozzers and generally work on currying favour with the cops. Then when some youngster stands outside one of their more fancy buildings they’ve got in London holding up a placard saying Scientology is a cult the cops swoop in and sweep him up – telling him what he’s doing is illegal. There’s a report about it somewhere but I can’t be fucked finding it. I know one thing though, they’re not to be fucked with, the Scientologists.

'Murderous Neglectus'

I took a trip to Kerry over the 12th to see an ex who needed her piano tuned. At the minute she’s staying in a little town called Kenmare after coming back from traipsing round Europe. I met the ex 4 years ago and we went out for three months before she went off travelling. I met her at the stone circle there. I was tripping on magic mushrooms when she came along. I was standing in the middle of the circle trying to catch sight of some ancient druid spirit imprints using the sharply rendered seeing of psilocybin. I did catch momentarily some fleeting figures smudge my peripheral vision. Then she came through the undulations. She was called Megan and she was from Indiana. She was a photographer and took a couple of snaps of me. She was travelling through the ring of Kerry and thinking of using it as a ‘springboard’, that was the word she used, to travel Europe. She was working as she went. Here in Kenmare there was an aunty of hers that owned a big house. Her children had left home and not long after this her husband retired. 3 weeks into his retirement the pair took a cruise and he suffered a quick severe stroke while standing admiring the view of the Med’ from their room balcony. Now the aunt has to look after the uncle 24/7 and Megan helped out when she could when she moved in.

All the talk of assisted suicide in the news had got Megan thinking on a thing she’d noticed with her aunt the last month or so. Her uncle with his stroke was limited to a strict-ish diet. He was allowed limited starch and fat and was allowed no alcohol. Megan told me the aunt gives her uncle 2 rashers on a Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night. She allowed him a pint of Guinness on Saturday night too. The doctors have upped his dose of special stroke tablets. Megan is concerned. While hardly knowing the aunt and uncle before leaving Indiana she has grown to like them in the last 6 of months. But she is concerned about her uncle’s health and her aunt’s warped behaviour. She says her aunt knows what she is doing. That she is not giving him all these forbidden things unconsciously. She thinks he is keeping some sort of log of how much fat and starch is in his diet presently. A sort of murder, she describes it as. She asks if there was a possibility that, if her uncle died as a result of this dangerous diet laid on by her aunt, if she would be done, if his death could be established as being as a direct result of this diet and if she would be charged with murder/manslaughter/criminal neglect. I said I didn’t know, but wondered to myself how many of these protracted drawing room murders take place in the world. How many people carefully and shrewdly knock off their burdensome spouse when they get to be too much hassle through neglect, poisoning etc. as I know nothing of Latin and less of the law I’ll call this phenomenon ‘Murderous Neglectus’.

Go Away Jesus - A Castrato Stole Your Crown

News from Reuben is that Roseanne Barr
is claiming on her blog that Joe Jackson
was an MK Ultra operative.

Here is what she says:

joe jackson is an mk ultra operative
who's abuse of his own children was used to profit the CIA's programs that follow and study the effects of child abuse on the young, and how their minds can be controlled to such an extent, and with such abuse, that they can be forced to develop talent. jesus said 'the truth will confound you in that day'.
joe jackson is a child abuser, and catherine looked the other way while he beat their kids and tortured michael mentally. keep them both away from michael's kids.

The half-mainstream Capitol Hill Blue now says that Jackson might have been castrated. I mentioned this in Fact #2 a couple of weeks ago.

I read in the paper today that one news commentator covering his rinzzle tinsel memorial service said ‘he was very much alive until he died.’ Or words to that effect.

Then there’s Ireland, thinking of introducing blasphemy laws. The Bunreacht na hEireann (Irish Constitution) says that with any change to the law there has to be a referendum. And surely voters will see the folly of trying to outlaw that ever-present instinctual verbal response when met with something a little out of the ordinary. I would be having flashbacks to when my granny would scold me for taking Jesus’ name in vain. Will this be considered worthy of prosecution? Hitting your thumb with a hammer or hearing on the death of a distant relative and feigning sadness: ‘Oh God...’ How will they police it? There is a hefty fine of 25,000 euro for anyone ‘causing a motivated group to be “outraged”’ 25,000 euros is loads. I have a feeling those spunky old priests will be roped in to do the Gardi’s dirty work for them. The priests, I can see, will act as sort of Stasi spies – the ears of the state, warmed through the grill during confession, they’ll take note of all the terrible indiscretions of their flock, the soft affronts to God. The priests rubbing their fat little tobacco stained hands together and waddling off to drop a dime on his fellow man. Nah, though, I don’t think it would be that bad to begin with. But then you have to remember the old priests are above the common man. They are God’s representatives on earth, propping up the papacy and meeting the bills on the line rental – direct line to St Peter. I hear the Pope on the eve of the G8 Summit says there needs to be global governance. Maybe all that mind control in the Hitler Youth about world domination and the Aryan Race has unspooled all over the inside of his mind. I can see behind those cold opal eyes a former pin up boy of the Aryan Race. But maybe Pope Benedict isn’t such an oddball after all. Russian president Dmitry Medvedev held up a representation of the new world legal tender at the recent G8 summit. Canadian Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, says there needs to be a one world government. They’re all coming out from behind the curtain now.

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........