So Hold Me Mom In Your Long Arms...In Your Military Arms

When I was 16 I started bucking this gagging-for-it 41-year-old mad 'un. She was bottle blonde and called Jude. She was a friend of my mother’s from her PTA days and she introduced the two of us (my mother) over a game of Buckaroo.

Apt.

I think it was the mechanical jerking of that bucking plastic donkey or whatever it was got me so turned on to begin with. As the game went on Dirty Jude started playing footsie with me, inching her little foot up the inside of my leg straight up to my cock. That foot of hers had a great dexterity and could even grip things; probably with the same strength as a baby monkey.

Dirty Jude’d had no babies and as a result of this her skin, especially round her torso, was smooth and firm and her tits were round pert classics. I liked to put one of them in each hand close my eyes and imagine I were carrying two baldy midgets under each arm.

This pink smooth stretch of MILF converged at her bald round cunt. It rose from the valley of her stomach like a Mayan temple on a faraway hill and was a source of fascination and pleasure for me.

The thing I really dug Dirty Jude for most of all though was her giving me an education. The most appreciated lesson was in how to give and receive anal.

She used to say – You want to come in through the VIP entrance tonight, lover? – in her cracked and ruptured girlie falsetto. Then she rolled onto her stomach and spread her cosy little arse cheeks apart while I poured Baby Oil all round her opening which were like a soft spongy crater in appearance.

While this were her most appreciated lesson, her most cherished trick was her big shaking, squirting climaxes. Her ejaculate would fire out of her like a fireman’s hose. She would wriggle in my arms like she were in a seizure and flap her tongue about. I liked to hold her in the middle and squeeze hard, like I were getting toothpaste outta a tube.
Yeah: Dirty Jude.

It was over Christmas ma reminded me of her. We were sitting over a reasonable Christmas Lunch, all the usual things there, turkey like fucking plasterboard trying to swallow it (or it could’ve been my nerves) and she says:
- remember that dirty auld hoor Dirty Jude? –
- yes, - I said – remember you give her a thick ear when Micheesha told you what we’d been doin’ together?
- Wish I’d’ve given her a thick head. You’re a dirty pig, Danny. Goin’ with a hoor like that, older than your mummy.
- What about cousin Uganda (cousin I haven’t mentioned before. A gaming success – make of that what you will). He married one 14 years older. He married her. And he’s rich as fuck. He got trapped, dear. I was desperate for a fuck, 16 and all. Which makes him he fool in my eyes and me just…
- Don’t talk about your libido in front of your mummy. C’mon now, play the game!

Later Micheesha came in. Sat all night making eyes at me but didn’t say anything because Mother was sitting there.

When mother started to nod off she said: - That auld hoor Dirty Jude, - out of the blue - but really a culmination of her annual Christmas Night eyebrow plucking ‘settling of an old score’ in her militaristic brain.
- Dirty Jew! – exclaimed Micheesha. – Don’t be anti-Semitic. Its Christmas!
- Christmas is when its nearly ok to be anti-Semitic. – I said while watching gentle Jesus on the tele getting all his presents from the magi.

Forgive Everybody And Remember

I ran out of all my money today at the same time I realised my motor had been sitting up there in that multi-storey car park in town for so many weeks (two), probably encased in ice and snow like some modern art resemblance and now it would probably never start again.

So I yet again returned to Micheesha’s looking my money. And if she didn’t have it, the slippery little poisoned eel, I would wreak a vengeance.

I had to go into town to get a bus to her’s. On the way to the bus I nearly went on my hoop twice on real slippery shiny patches of ice, - made so slippery thus dangerous by the fact they were the result of leaking gutters from the buildings all around, dripping all manner of shite and sewerage down onto the footpath to collect in big pools to then freeze in the -10 climate today.

3 old women went down like they’d been shot by Nazi sharpshooters on D-Day. Straight onto their backs. The first two were attended to quickly and graciously by passersby. And in those cases I would’ve done my bit there if it were required. The last old doll I saw falling though, she cracked her head on a jutting out brick from a building. Cracked her head like an Easter Egg and blood poured out everywhere and I being so mortified couldn’t even make believe it were syrup pouring out of like a Cadbury’s Crème Egg (and it were red instead of white anyway).

So I crossed the street and turned the corner, and was glad to find the bus to Micheesha’s was just about to take off. I was glad because if I’d’ve stopped to help the old doll I would’ve missed it. So it was a good thing I ignored her and a sort of inverted evil fate that allowed me to continue my mission.

Again at Micheesha’s the bitch stands there, shoulders flexed. Entry blocked, shoulders deep, upper half bouncing slowly from side to side off either side of the doorframe like a speedometer in flux.
- where’s my money, cunt.
- I don’t have it. I only have what I have. And you can’t take it off me! It’s Christmas!
- I’m gettin my fuckin dough today. I’ve no food for me nor the cat. I can’t get my motor outta the fuckin multi-storey in town. I’m fucked Micheesha.
- dunno how you’re fucked, Danny, cos I’m nat givin em out mate. As in I don’t give a fuck. Nat one. And I saw you comin’ up the path and I called Stupid Peter (her ‘partner’) and his brothers. So I suppose in that case you are fucked, Danny. And you will be by them!
In response to this sisterly petulance I kicked her right in the hoof (the vagina) and went booting into her house. Before I could get to the living room she grabbed my ankle (she were on the floor winded at this point) and pulled at my trouser leg imploringly.
- Please, Danny. What are you doing? – she wheezed. - Please don’t. Think of the kids! Here, - she wheezed some more while getting to her feet and handing me a tub of green face paint. – rub this on your face and put this woolly hat on and your eyes are all glassy and red so that’s good and go in there and tell em you’re The Grinch and you’re here to steal their prezzies cos I know that’s what you’re going to do ain’t it? but more than that: you wanna keep the FANTASY of Christmas alive for em Danny, don’t ye?
- I’m gonna steal em and sell em, yeah. Cos I gotta you silly bitch. But yeh to the other thing, too.
- right then, - she whispered, forlornly.

So I went in there and stamped all over the toys and dogshit and scared the kids half-to-death.
- I’m The Grinch, yahh, - I went.
They squealed.
- I’m The Grinch, yahh! Yahh! And I’ve come to take all your prezzies from under the tree cos you’re good-for-nothing mother ain’t paid her drug debts so now she can’t pay Santa for your toys. So I’m the Grinch and I gotta take them.
- No! – they screamed. – No! Please Don’t!

But I did and that’s all there was to it.

And later at home after another nice warm & tingly act of onanism it finally dawned on me that always, without fail, after I pull one out, I like to listen to a good tune. So I thought I’d create a Facebook page called ‘wank:tune’ then realised I couldn’t cos I don’t have an account.

Happy x-mas to one and all!

And here’s that tune I heard, one of empowerment and defiance, my gift from me to you:

Words And Pictures Simply Can't Describe...

It was a very wet day. The air was wet when I finally emerged onto the street late this afternoon having spent the last 48 hours in hibernation, eating Pot Noodles and snorting a lot of base (but not so much that I seriously depleted my profit margin).

I had also bought two quick little white mice from the nearby pet shop to let Boke the Cat chase round the house.

The little bastard was starving and was so very ruthless in his hungry pursuit of the first mouse. The second, cleverer mouse, went and hid under the big, imposing dark-wood chest of drawers my granny give me and stayed there. But the first mouse? He ran.

From the kitchen I could hear an almighty clattering calamity occurring, and I reckoned the stupid mouse were crawling across the ceiling, his sharp little claws dug into the paint, him hanging on for dear life. Boke meanwhile leaping and bouncing and leaping off every surface in an effort to get high enough to swat the courageous little thing from his safe perch.

Whatever happened, Boke the Cat proudly, and with not a little weary dignity, returned into the living room carrying the limp dead mouse. With great relish he sat eating it in front of the electric fire and when he was done he licked his lips and rolled all over the floor. I noticed as he came past me, strutting officially like he were in a procession of returning war heroes, the face of the captured mouse had this frozen, petrified look about it. Teeth bared, eyes wide, whiskers arched and stiff.

Anyway, I sat watching Boke eat his dinner and I gained a little emotional succour from it. It made me feel horny as a matter of fact: watching him split that mouse, arse to tit, and eating its innards out. It felt like hardcore cunnilingus. I got my dick out and had a wank to it.

Afterwards Boke boked up some of what he ate. He walked ahead of it a little and started scraping the carpet in a backward motion, flicking his paws backward like he were in his litter tray and he were trying to cover it up. I don’t know why cats do this. All the time, if they’ve had an accident, they always think they’re in their litter tray and try and cover it up. They’re stupid that way. When he turned to look at me, to see if I’d seen what he just did, I saw myself reflected in his eye, his fiery yellow eye, my reflection held there like a prehistoric bug in amber.

Words & Pictures simply can’t describe...

I waited till it got dark till I went over to my Sis Micheesha’s house in Sydenham. Round there I could see on the walls the old S.W.T (Sydenham Wine Team) graffiti had reappeared here and there.

I didn’t know what to make of this. At their height in the 80’s/90’s they were mysterious to me. A punk Freemasonry in my eyes. Turns out they were Glentoran supporters all along, but legend had it they carried revolvers and drank cheap port wine upstairs in the McDonalds in town.

I was still ruminating on this when Micheesha came to the door, standing there barring me from getting in her house.
- I haven’t sold none yet, - she said with balls of dry white spittle collected at the corners of her mouth.
- That’s no fuckin good, Micheesha, - I said.
- I know. But there’s no one – I mean.
- Gimmie it straight you fuckin wapped out, fucked up head melter. You’ve fuckin put half of it up your nose haven’t ye?
- no I haven’t. I swear. I promise you. I’ll have all your dough come Saturday. Promise!
- Micheesha, I’m gonna burn down this house, with you, your kids, your dogs, that fuckin halfwit boyfriend –
- Partner!
- That fuckin’ chip sniffer boyfriend, that fuckin gormless ginger walking cheese puff, I stabbed him he’d probably bleed Fanta, ginger cunt. All you. Dead. Burnt to death.
- I’ve got something I can give you. Probably tide you over?
- Better be money?
- I could tell you where Kimba is...

So she were in this park on the Ormeau Road, with all these other hippy cult looking types, all mental deficients by the looks of it.

Then I saw her. She were playing catch with this totally gorgeous looking bloke. She were wearing some sort of facemask similar to Paul Gascoigne’s when he went to Lazio, which was probably to do with the reconstructive surgery she were getting on her melted off face that I caused when I shoved her headfirst into her granny’s fire.

But that boy she were playing catch with were the bees’ knees. An Adonis. This song I thought I’d play when I got home. Then I nearly cried. But I didn’t. Cos I’m a man.

Trying To Make A Pound Out Of 15p

When I arrived home I could’ve nearly cried when I realised that change I dropped at the foot of the Moses’ tramp was all that was between me and the grave, save for bad fortune.

I raided my cupboards looking for something I could throw together for my dinner, but all I could finds, behind an empty box of Weetabix, was a half-a-tube of Jaffa Cakes. I forlornly returned to my living room and sat eating them and watching the news on the tele while trying to feed little corners to Boke the Cat, who turned his nose up at them.

Well then the little cunt could starve. And this situation just wouldn’t do.

So I had to make a pound out of 15p, as a variation on the song, and in order to get this done I went cap in hand to Bosco’s to buy some of his base.

- Danny Pongo, with his tail between his legs. Never thought I’d see the day, - said Bosco, laughing at me.
- Have the cops been here looking for me, Bosco? I asked.
- No. But don’t think I’ll be lying for you when they do show up. I’ll have you on possession with intent to supply if you tell them about me making it up here. Consider it the touts’ M.A.D, or Mutually Assured Destruction.
- I know what M.A.D means, Bosco, - wishing I could do a bit of mutually assured destruction on his hole, then by effect mine, but only so it meant fucking the little cunt up.
- How much you want?
- an ounce.
- on strap?
- yes. Gonna sell it with a 5er mark-up on a 10ers worth. Gotta get some coin together.
- I hear ye, - said the little weasel, casting himself in his own little hard-luck story.

I reckoned My Sis’ Micheesha would take most of it off my hands and the rest I’d sell on in little wraps here and there.

Micheesha’s house as usual was a fucking tip. Dogs’ shit in various sizes, shapes and colours sat like islands amidst a sea of kids’ toys. There was not an inch of carpet you could see.
- Micheesha, fuckin dogs’ shite’ll make your kids go blind if they touch it, - I warned.
- I’m getting a woman in to clean the day, Danny, fuckin’ drap it! What you wan’ anyway?
- Need to shift a bit of base. You interested?
- aye. Show us...

Micheesha’s a very thorough and particular little bitch and has not a crumb of trust for me, Danny Pongo, her little brother. So we racked up a couple of lines me and her so she could test it, and for the following hour and a half I’d to sit and listen to her list a number of grievances she held against every one of her exes, (not a modest number, men and women): the beatings, the rough anals, the thieving, the drug addicts, the alcos, - a compiling of miseries heaped upon miseries reamed off with an autistic’s fastidious attention to memory and a poet’s vividness, all her own terrible memorial from then till now.

After I got fed up with her talking I made my excuses and left, and she hit me with it at the door.
- I’ll get that sold this week. You hold out till then till I get you the dough?
- fuckin’ hell, Micheesha! No! I’m flat broke. Gimmie a score, and I’ll be back for the rest on Wednesday.
- don’t have a fuckin’ score, Danny!
- oh yeah? Well what were you gonna pay the fuckin’ cleaner with then? – I said, snatching her bag of the hall table.
- gimme that back you dirty wee cunt, - she said chasing me down her front path as I turned her purse over in the garden.
- there we go. 20 quid, - I said taking it from the pile of paper and coins. See you Wednesday.
- what am I gonna pay the cleaner with?! Danny? Danny! – she yelled as I walked away.

I See Her Face Everywhere I Go, On The Street, Even At The Picture Show

Today I drove round Belfast looking for Kimba. I was not going to put it off any longer. My search for her would know no bounds. My love for her no limits.

I put this song on the stereo to keep me romantic:

After an hour or two, the lyrics quoted above in the title inspired me to go catch a movie. Five minutes into the trailers I fell asleep. I can’t even remember what the flick was called.

Later I sat and smoked a joint in my car, having parked up in the multi-storey by the Inn’s Shops. After that I went for a dander around. Went in and out of various shops I thought Kimba would go, like Liberty Blue, or Fresh Garbage, which was easy-walking as they were only round the corner from each other.

In these places I scowled with true bitterness and hatred right in the direction of Christmas shoppers. I thought, how am I going to get my shopping done? With no money? But then, I thought, the only person I’ve to get for is mother, and she’ll only want a Coronation Street 50 Years commemorative plate, what’ll only cost a few bob off a market stall. This fact, these two facts combined, made me feel very sad.

I ended my search for her in the Primark on Royal Avenue. As well as looking for her I also wanted to check on the price of perfume so I could buy some to give to her for Christmas if she ever did turn up before then.

After a fruitless search I went and stood under the heater at the entrance of the store, right between the automatic doors, letting the rushing comforting blast of warm cover me like a waterfall of treacle. My eyes closed and I momentarily felt myself dissipating in a sea of nirvana. The pangs of acute destitution I felt when I found the perfumes in Primark (trashy budget store), even the cheapest of them, were beyond my budget, seemed to me to have been experienced in a previous lifetime.

However, all good things must come to an end, and what brought me out of this state of bliss was a creeping and noxious attack on the senses from below. That sense being the sense of smell.

For from below crept the smell of the unwashed, or never wiped. Shite-in trousers and terror sweats, the odours of which, along with other, unidentifiable ones, mixed and swirled in the updraft of the heater.

I opened my eyes immediately and looked down. A tramp sat, his legs all rubbery and mangled looking, not two feet away mumbling for change. His face had the texture of dry, cracked turf, his eyes were blue and watery in the cold and he had a bushy poofed out Moses beard.

I could feel my lunch rising so I tore my hands, tense with disgust, from my pockets to cover my nose. In the process of doing this, wouldn’t you know it? all my change flies out too and bounces all over the pavement in front of the poor tramp. He didn’t even have to chase it, which was lucky cos his legs were the in the shape of tangly spaghetti and I doubt he would’ve even been capable.
As he watched all this clattering silver and copper jumping and bouncing before him like tiny leaping fish his lovely blue eyes shone and his Moses beard pulsated.

And what was I to do? And the fucking Salvos were across the street as well keeping an eye. One I’m sure was the minister, who was no doubt going to use the what of what I did next for the basis of his sermon on Sunday.

I wished I could’ve done something. Something cool (not something violent, too much of that recently). Converted them all to atheism with the wave of my hand then using telekinesis levitate Moses the Tramp before their very eyes, leaving them rightly confused.

But I didn’t. I did nothing. Just looked at Moses, looked at the Salvo’s. Give a weak finger to who I thought was the Minister (fuck him for suppressing Free Will), and ended up having to walk home as I’d no change now to pay to get the car outta the multi-storey.

On the way back I hoped I’d be hit by a bus and killed and that the news of my accident and how it came to be would get back to the Minister. But that didn’t happen, and I feel more glad for that than not.

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.

I'm Not Terrific But I'm Competent

As I was getting sick of Bosco’s obsessing over his ‘Bosco Base’ speed I decided to risk going back to mine to see if I’d any post like my bi-monthly porn subscription for example.

On the way up Tate’s Avenue the snow began to fall heavily and above in the sky I could see, through the slowly drifting graceful flakes arranged thick as television static, the headlights of an aeroplane shining through the squall.

I stuck my thumb in the air, hoping to flag it down, and I reminded me of this track:

Glad of the snow when I got to my street as I thought it might camouflage me from any pigs I nevertheless shuffled along ever on-the-lookout for phlorescent jackets, but then began to worry when I chanced upon the possibility the sneaky bastards might go undercover this time.

Next door the kids had built a large snowman which I didn’t notice at first but when I did it made me jump. It was a grotesque thing in its resemblance to a thalidomide humanoid and by the fact there was a slim possibility that there might be a pig inside it waiting to pounce.

I got in the house and was glad and calmed to find my porno had arrived.

I turned the heat on and got myself all snuggled up in bed with my porno. Then the fucking door is rapped. My boner shrivelled up so quick and actually I think retracted a little into my body so afraid was I all of a sudden.

I crawled on my hands and knees into the front room where I keep my ironing board and very stealthy like sneaked a look out the window at my car, the driver’s side window to be precise, to see in the reflection who it was.

What it looked like, my caller, was a girl, indeterminate age, blonde. Couldn’t rate her ass under her big heavy duffel coat, nor her tits as I could only see her from behind.

And completely forgetting they might have sent a sow round undercover (my dick getting the better of me again) I threw on a dressing gown and went down the stairs to answer it to her.

She were around 16. Lovely rosy cheeks, pinched by the cold, reasonable tits, even under the duffel coat, and hips round and plentiful like a rising sun.
- Hi.
- Hi.
- Did you know its 22 days till we celebrate the birth of our Lord and saviour Jesus Christ?
- I was vaguely aware yes. I’ll have plenty of time till get him a card, won’t I? But with the Post Office and the state of it, you never know.
- Oh hahaha, very funny. You’re a very funny man...Well anyway, its Jesus’ birthday soon, and the younger members of the local Methodist are canvassing the area seeing if people around the ages of 16-35 –
- That’s me, - I nearly lied.
- Yes well, if you’d be interested then in joining us some Saturday evening in the church hall for some fun & fellowship?
At this I look my cock out and let it hang there like a poached armadillo.
- You know the only fun and fellowship you can have without no beer and drugs? I said, squeezing it to hardness, - this kind, - said I, nodding down at my now capacity length 6 and a half inches.

The girl’s eyes big as saucers and protruding out of her lovely sweet teenage face roughly pushed me back into the hall, threw her clipboard at Boke the Cat, who ran upstairs, got down on her knees and ate it greedily. Wet, smooth and deep.

I thought to myself, I don’t want to cum in this grotty hall of mine, so I led her by the hair into the living room, over to the curtains, pulled them, then put this one on the turntable and blasted it. To. Fuck:

Life Isn't Everything

Sometimes you can get nothing done without having a good wank first. So it was the other morning when before I could get my story straight, re the incident at Kimba’s granny’s house, I had to pull one out in Bosco’s hotpress all over his lovely towels.

I have been hiding out here in Bosco’s for the last week or two in order to evade the law who I’m in no doubt will be looking for me on suspicion of serious assault, including the serious sexual assault on granny.

In composing my story I was reminded of a time in my dim and distant past, around the time of my childhood youth, when I asked my gran, us both standing in a packed butcher’s, if I could rape her when we got home. I was not really privy to the meaning of the word then, and coming out of my daydream reminisce shuddering at this fact, I began to get the impression ‘Song For Guy’ was providing the soundtrack somehow, when I turned to discover it was coming from Bosco’s portable radio, which he’d brought with him into the kitchen.

It turns out Bosco’s turned his hand to making base speed to sell “to anybody that wants it, the kiddies included”, in order to get himself out of the financial hole he’s found himself in.
- But, Bosco! – I begged, - what about your capacity as a cobbler?
- There’s been a real downturn in that market, Danny. A real downturn.
- well I guarantee you, old chum, that downturn is going to change direction.
- really, which way.
- to an upturn, you fool! With the coming financial flagellation people will not be going out to buy new shoes, they will be turning to you to fix the ones they’ve got. Why, you should get onto it now, start an advertising campaign.
- umm, I don’t know. Base sells pretty well!
- well whatever you like, Bosco. Anyway I need you to get my story straight. I need you to tell the cops, when they inevitably come round that I’ve been shacked up with you this past while.
- Jesus! No! That’s perjury to begin with.
- not if you just tell that to the cops.
- yes but what happens if it gets to court? It’ll be perjury then!
- if you don’t do it Bosco I’ll tell em you’re manufacturing speed in here. You’re a messy cunt as well, I wouldn’t trust you to clean my arse, never mind get rid of all the traces of base in this place. You don’t do it and I’ll tout on you, pigs might even gimmie immunity from what I did for it.
- Danny, you wouldn’t turn in an old pal like that? Especially one that’s out on his arse?
- Bosco, you wouldn’t tell a wee white lie for a pal? Especially one who’s done nothing wrong?

Bosco shrugged sadly and his face crumpled and set in a firm and stonelike worried grimace that still has not shifted yet.

Later we sampled some of Bosco’s Base, as he’s calling it. Some short time after that we both found ourselves perched on the edge of his dirty brown bog, filling it rapidly with our watery stool, which in both our cases had the consistency of just-cooked stew.

It was good base as it turned out; both by the fact that it made us need to shite so quick and by the fact that both of us, sitting back to back there in his chilly morbid bathroom, were talking a mile-a-minute and couldn’t have stopped even if we’d’ve liked to.
- what you wanna do? Asked Bosco through chattering teeth.
- let’s go out for a spin in your motor, - said I though mine.
- where to?
- dunno, let’s just drive and see where the road takes us.

So off we went through the city centre at 2 in the morning, just as the snow began to fall, down through Shaftsbury Square where all the chip-sniffers from the M-Club and all the hippies from Lavery’s were staring to emerge out onto the street to huddle round under the neon store fronts which were made less ugly and more Christmassy in the snow.

I spat a big chemically speed gob at a languorous hippy that stepped out in front of the car, and Bosco put this track on as it felt like a good soundtrack to everything going on around him, he said.

I Don't Wanna Talk, If It Makes You Feel Sad, And I Understand, You've Come To Shake My Hand

Yesterday morning I received the date for my court appearance on charges which amount to ‘we’re doing you for committing blasphemous vandalism’ really.

Over breakfast of scrambled egg and carrot juice this song was playing on some AM station between stations on a narrow hair’s breadth band width (and the announcer was French):

Somewhere halfway through the track my surroundings were carried off like rickety stage scenery in a twister and I am left with Agnetha standing before me, shimmering in white against a dimensionless black eternity behind her.

She sang the rest of the song majestically and with a pious divineness and every lyric held a paranoid schizophrenic’s significance and logic.

When the song ended the kitchen reappeared and I boked what I’d eaten of my scrambled eggs into my big pint glass of half drunk carrot juice. I held up the mixture and examined it for a minute or two to get my head straight then got up and emptied it into Boke the Cat’s food bowl. I wanted out of the house, to empty my mind of my delusions and worry. So I went round to Kimba’s granny’s to get a fuck off her (off Kimba).

When I got to the Kimba’s granny’s house then I found the front door open a little and the bony grey ankle and the scuffed red leather kitten heel shoe of granny sticking out.

I pushed my way in, forcing granny’s knees up and stepped over her. I noticed she’d a big cut on her head.

From the grand front room I could hear Kimba rhythmically screaming in sexual ecstasy. Between screams were the deep and varied multi-tonal guttural hoorays of a rutting masculine cock. Cock-With-A-Body-Attached (C’Waba).

I went in there and the guy, a big cross-eyed spide, chucks Kimba off him and gets up walking toward me with his hand out to shake it.
- You’re Danny Pongo, You’re Danny Pongo, - he said over and over.

I took his hand, alright. Took it and pulled him toward me and stuck the head in, breaking his nose and knocking him clean out before he even hit the deck.

Kimba lay curled up on the sofa in the foetal position naked and quivering like a pale newborn hatchling. I picked her up and smoothed her out and prying her open took all the strength I had. There was a big old fire going in granny’s big ugly no-taste fireplace and I got her on all fours right in front of it and shoved her in there head first and give her a good boot up the hole for good measure making her bang her head off the back of the fireplace knocking her out too and so I left her lying face down in there, in the fire, getting her face melted off.

And I wasn’t done yet.

I went back into the hall and opened granny’s mouth and took a big shite in it. I got the big black latex dildo Kimba and C’Waba were using and shoved it right up in her old cunt, up between her old stage-curtain-wrinkly labia, which shook as I did so. I took some of the shite that was in granny’s mouth on the end of my fingertips and went back in the front room and rubbed it in C’Waba’s wounds. Then I turned him over and filled his hole up with Poly-Filla that I found in a cupboard under the sink in the kitchen.

On the way out I give granny a good old kick in the cunt sending the black latex dildo right up into her fragile body like a missile from a submarine shoots out into the ocean.

Smiling I walked down the crunchy gravel drive satisfied I’d done a number on those that had betrayed me.

On the way home on the bus I had a wank over Agnetha outta Abba and got a text message from Bogdan,

“Am sik of having no woman. Need 2 squeeze a tit. Have thought of piercing holes in my nibbles so’s someone can blow them up like balloons 2 be like tits. So need u 2 cum over there4.
PS, have u ever been 2 San Francisco? They do this there.”

So I texted back,

“Can’t come over. Busy. Yes I have been 2 ‘cisco, but u know wat Bogdan, I’ve never been 2 me...”

I Could Be The Hands That Breaks The Chains That Set You Free: Gary McKinnon, Frustrated 90s Popster

This evening I went round to my mother’s on the back of an invite for a spot of cold night hot Sunday Roast, which mainly consisted of heated up burnt things like spuds and carrots to eat.

So I expected to walk in to a big spread with loads of meat and veg’...presenting with wispy wet pallid steam rising in snaking random plumes from it all and smelling great...but instead I came in through her side door to find her sitting at the kitchen table with a collage of Dear Deirdre articles that she’d cut outta The Sun spread out in front of her.

She explained to me that she were making up an epic narrative from these Dear Deirdre strips, combining the photo stories with the letter problems. I don’t know why, it must have been my mood, but I embraced this keenly as an inspired though overall-ly original art venture. So much so that the specific particular emotions, palpably yielding a notable chemical movement in my mind, turned up a memory of Outsider Artist Henry Darger and his Vivian Girls epic.

When I went back home I was frightened and disappointed to discover someone had put a banger through my letterbox. All the junk mail that had collected in the corner was burnt up into a black shiny mush and poor Boke the Cat was cowering in the corner licking his tail, which was all singed and baldy at the end.

I closed and double locked the front door and poked about in the big pile of ashes the remains of all the many sad months of junk mail and found amidst it all a day-glo post-it note untouched and perfectly preserved miraculously like a Ark Of The Covenant type divine relic.

It read:

“From your intel contact, Rueben.

Gary McKinnon stumbled upon something v.big. US Marines being trained by ET in specially fitted anti-grav’ bases on the moon. Check it out...

PS G.McKinnon was a try-hard pop star in the ‘90’s. Look it up. Then look further.”

I fucking hate Richard Madeley. Actually I once had an idea for a programme I thought might have a chance of getting made by one of the major networks, called 'Madeley Feeds Africa', where Richard goes to Africa and visits 3 starving townships who are required to put on a show so's to provide him with the utmost entertainment. At the end of each episode Madeley decrees which township put on the best show and for a prize this township receives a free UN food drop for a whole year. The two losing townships however are machine gunned to death by Judy Finnegan in an overflying Apache Helicoptor, while the pineal glands of the still warm corpses are to be extracted and fed to her in a vain attempt to cure her alcoholism.

So I sent it into them.

And still haven't heard back.

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.

So Messed Up I Want You Here

Day before yesterday I finally tracked Kimba down. She’s been staying in her granny’s greenhouse the last week. Her granny won’t let her in the house because she knows what kind of girl Kimba is and she doesn’t want her to contaminate the sheets. But she has let her set little fires outside the greenhouse to keep warm by and she tells Kimba that if she’s still with her come next summer she can grow whatever she likes in there. I wouldn’t count on it.

I played this song on the stereo on the way over to see her:

She’d texted to tell me where she was:

“Danny. So horny. Am staying in granny’s greenhouse. Sik of friggin’ me’sel with only me fingers or tings held therein. Come over and do it do me Danny!”

So I give her a ring. For the address and exact directions and what her granny was like to speak to.

Turned out she were a very neat and very straight grey coloured old stick with tightly pursed lips always, which made it look, out of the corner-of-your-eye, like she had a button for a mouth.

So I passed her graciously in the hall, giving her a little curtsy as I went, something I always do when deferring to betters.

I went outside into the garden and over into the greenhouse to find Kimba sitting reading the Fred West strip in Viz.

- Remember I said me and you were like Fred and Rose, - I said quietly over her shoulder making her jump. - Killing our kids and all. Granted ours hadn’t actually been born yet, but why split hairs.
She turned out white as a sheet, teeth chattering – Remember you brought me home a McDonald’s Big Mac box with a kinder egg capsule (that you got the toys in) inside. I opened it. Inside was your cum. You said Fred used to do it for Rose all the time bringing her home little mementos, like sweet wrappers and ice lolly sticks, that he’d found in bins and skips and things like that.
- That’s right baby. That’s right, - I said closing in on her.

So I frigged her like she wanted. It put a bit of colour back in her cheeks.
Afterward she said, - Your nails are too sharp, Danny. When you stuck em up in there it was like driving a harvester through a field of sunflowers. That’s a very delicate passage, Danny. Probably the sweetest, tenderest passage you’ll ever move through.

I stroked her hair. – Get the fuck outta here, - she said blankly.
I walked a bit up the garden then turned to see if she were watching me go. She wasn’t so I looked at her back for a bit, which looked like an unmade bed and said, - I’ll call you in a day or two? But all I got back were the jumps of her bony shoulders as she heaved her tears and her sadness out.

So in the way pack in the car I played this:

and ruminated on the extraordinary versatility of human wickedness, and wondered on the sadness of Karen Carpenter.

I Flatter And Am Flattered Too Easily

Last night I’d a dream I was taking a piddle and my bell-end fell off. I stood and looked at it for the longest time when this little tiny arm popped out of the hole, elbow first, does this big stretch, then the arm, this whole arm, begins to grow in size so it was eventually a lot bigger than I was, by around 6 times. Then it begins to wank ME off till I swell up like someone on steroids and boke up about two buckets’ worth of cum.

Then through no rhyme or reason (as is so common in dreams) I am transported to a time in the not so distant future when the Lights Have All Gone Out. I am sitting in my kitchen reading 'Witchcraft and Black Magic' by Montague Summers.

I have a feeling I am going to start some sort of After The Bomb Fell type cult. By me on the floor lies Kimba her stomach hollowed out and filled with water with goldfish swimming about in it. Out the window I can see UFOs, many of them, dart about firing proton torpedoes back and forth engaged in some epic dogfight. One of the UFOs is hit and falls at speed toward my house. The fear and shock defibrillates me awake.

Downstairs I can hear this song playing:

I get up and go downstairs going toward the music which sounds like it is coming from somewhere other than the living room, - which is where I would expect it to come from as that’s where I have my record player.

But it is coming from the kitchen so I go in there and the turntable is sitting on the table, record spinning. A letter is propped up against it. The letter reads:

“Danny,

I am so sad in this relationship. As the song says: Love don’t live here anymore.

You have taken me for granted for the last time and you have betrayed me for the last time. I know you are in a homosexual relationship with one or more of your friends. At the same time I know I have cheapened your love for me by cheating on you, but this is usually in response to your infidelity.

I refuse to reduce and sully myself any longer in reaction to your dishonesty.

I’ll see you around,

Kimba
x”

I sat and thought on this all afternoon. At some point between Loose Women and Neighbours I went to get my weed, which I keep behind in the breadbin in the kitchen. I reached back there and I took out my little coin bag (the ones you get in the bank, what I get my deals in) and found it empty except for a little post-it note folded in half, which read:

“I have flushed your weed down the toilet. Kimba ”

The remainder of the afternoon then I spent devising ways to get revenge on her. I decided on getting incense sticks, dipping them in glue, then sticking them into Boke the cat’s fortnight old litter tray (sure as fuck I didn’t give a fuck about that cat). I would put them in there, good and deep, twist em round a bit to make sure they got covered in the gritty litter she uses. I would do a dozen incense sticks this way. Then I would put them in a little box and print up a label which read “Nature’s Incense” or something and stick it on the box. Then I would send this little box to Kimba’s Satanic Cultist adoptive parents and attach a note saying it were from her for their anniversary, which I knew were week after next.

Then...out-of-the-blue...I realised I’d grown attached to the peculiar bitch and I couldn’t bear to let her go. And so I sat down to write my own letter begging for her to come back home. Back into my arms where she belonged. But the first steps taken in drafting such a heartfelt appeal were bolstered by the plagiarised lines of others...and so I wrote:

“...and regarding my infidelity I have but only myself to blame, sweetheart. I flatter and am flattered too easily.* But the taxing way of adjusting to all the thoughts that you reveal, only incites me to motion well that’s the crux of your appeal...**"

* Richard Burton in a letter to Liz Taylor.

** Mike Nesmith – Wax Minute:

When I Was A Prophet

Sometimes I get a sense about people. Something to do with their mortality.

Sometimes it is the sheen of their skin.

There was a boy I went to primary school with. One day in PE I noticed his hairless shiny legs. It was like he were made out of plastic.

I said to my friend Bob Rose, - I have a prophecy. That boy (can’t remember his name) will die soon of cancer.

At the start of the P6 term a few years later the boy was nowhere to be seen. On that first day back, in morning assembly, we were told by the headmistress that the boy had died during the summer. – Cancer, - she said with a tear.

The boy was a favourite among the teachers. The headmistress, the dotty sneering old cunt, set up a shrine for him in the front hall and kept it up for 6 months. A teachers’ pet. Would’ve turned out to have been a real good-living bread & butter sort of man.

This alone was reason enough to be happy about him dying. But the main reason I was happy about it was because now I could brag to my friend Bob Rose that I really was a prophet.

This turned out to have consequences. People laughed at me to begin with. Then when I predicted that Deirdre from Coronation Street would get cancer (judging by all the veins popping out on her C3-PO neck), and then she did, my classmates became ultra worshipful.

Kylie did not have a Deirdre neck at this point, but if she had’ve had like she later did, I would have said that she was for the chopping block as well. And I would’ve been right (nearly). And then I would’ve been a god among them.

As it was, the popular clique, the Ruling Elite of the microcosmic society - the playground - feted me wherever I went. I suppose it amounted to them wanting to garner some of my occult knowledge. And I suppose the reason they waned to do that was to extend their control beyond the playground and into the mean streets.

But things for me always have a habit of derailing when they’re chugging along just right, and derail they did. As the group around me grew, some of the less popular children began to beg and scrape at the feet of the playground oligarchy. Being the elite’s quasi high priest I too was granted no end of favours from these vassals. One hot summer’s day, just lazing away on the grass, I felt a great urge to take a piss. I sat up and took a look around and spotted one of them under a tree picking his nose. So I called him over. He had a great head of curls that swayed as he walked. I got up on my feet and told him to get on his knees in front of me and open his mouth. He did as he was told, robotic like an MK ULTRA slave, and I put my soft dick, aching from the need to go so bad, right in his mouth and took a long slow warm piss.
I told him, - Don’t swallow!

When I got done he stood up and waited to be told what to do. His cheeks were stretched out, fat as a space hopper.
- Right, - I said. - Don’t swallow. Run up to the toilets and spit it out.

The slave ran as fast as he could up the hill to the school. I smiled with satisfaction and lay back down in the grass to think about my prophecies.

What happened when he got into the school my pal Bob Rose told me about round at my house a couple of days later after I’d been expelled.
- He ran in trough the side door and down the hall toward the toilets. And you know the way The Head’s office is just before you get to the toilets? well she came out just as he got up to her door, and by this point, some are telling me, the piss was running out the slave’s nose, and The Head just looks down at him, screams the place down asking him what he thinks he’s doing etcetera, and he spits out about a milk bottle’s worth of piss right at her feet and told her everything.

And so I was expelled and I went to a new school and that was the end of that story.

Kimba, in one of her strops, had exiled me to the bedroom for ‘thinking time’ and I was bored. Bored enough to eat my own shite. Bored enough to reminisce for sure.
Listening to this calming track on my Walkman I began to turn over in my mind the implications of this power of prophecy that manifested in me as a young child in primary school, but the boredom I felt led me down one blind alley after another so I give up on it.

I decided the only thing for it then was to have a wank. When it was over I lay a while with the warm wet cum curved along my great fat belly in a perfect line like a scar that hadn’t healed properly. I felt myself nodding off and so collected up from the floor the only book we have in the house (The Bible) ripped out a couple of pages (Proverbs) and wiped myself off with those. And then fell asleep wondering to myself that if you spill upwards can it still be considered a spill?

I Saw Your Eyes And You Touched My Mind

This afternoon in the off licence, standing right at the end of a very long queue, I begin to fantasise about murdering the sad looking frazzle haired old lady way up ahead at the till. I would kill her, I thought, by pouring the bottle of gin she were purchasing down her neck. It wouldn’t be hard. She’d have not much strength in her to begin with, being old and a chronic lush. The only resistance I would get, I thought, would be the involuntary body spasms issuing from her in short and decreasingly less powerful bursts as her lungs filled with London Fog.

To take my mind of my morbid fantasies as they were making me queasy I began to think how hard it would be going back home to Kimba. I would have to crawl grovelling back to her. I hadn’t been back in four days and four nights, leaving her as I did in the garden: legs spread and bleeding out all over a Minnie Mouse beach towel.

I was getting for her in the off licence 6 blue WKDs. They were her favourite tipple, the blue ones, and those along with a copy of Viz would get the ball rolling on me-making-things-up to her.

I walked up my street then with a jaunty zing in my gait and turned into my house, nearly walking right through the front door like a ghost so as not to disrupt for one second the vigour in my rhythm.

And just like that into the front room I went and who should be on the floor getting bummed by a skinny little spide with a star shaved into his step, but Kimba, light of my life.

All around there was lube and on either side of the writhing pair a couple of rubber dongs. In the air hung a smell of chlorine or cum.

The skinny little spide hopped to his feet and went to square up to me. He was terribly skinny. His ribs were sticking out so that I could count every one and I’m positive I could see, through his sickly translucent rice paper skin, his weedy little lungs hanging there in his chest like a granda’s scrotum. He looked like someone just walked outta Belsen and straight onto a porno set.

- Who the fuck are you? Asked the Holocaust Spide, hopping from foot to foot.
- I’m Danny Pongo and this is my house and that is my woman you’re sodomising on the floor. Now get out before I cut your throat!
- Or you’ll do wha’? said the Holocaust Spide, the eternal refrain of him and those like him. - I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw, - he said.
- Oh yeah, - I said. - You’re as hard as my granny’s shite. Now fuck off! - I said, karate chopping him right on his little fishbone ribcage.

The little bastard collected up his shop-bought ripped jeans and his Tommy Hilfiger shirt and his gold chain and ran out the house.

I looked at Kimba. On the TV Neighbours was on.
- I s’pose I deserved that, - I said.
- You did, - she said, in post coital lazy purrs.
- Ok then, well why don’t you get up. That songs on. On Neighbours. Angry Anderson. We’ll have a slow dance -
- I fuckin hate that song. Put Flock Of Seagulls on the record player and NO slow dancing!