Yesterday (Sunday) afternoon I took myself of for a dander around Belfast city centre. I must say, I don’t think there is a more depressing city centre in Western Europe than a Belfast city centre on a Sunday afternoon.
Though every corner I turned gave me reason to count my blessings. Onto Fountain Lane where a poor Romanian sat crosslegged plunking away on an old accordion he couldn't play, and which wasn't tuned anyway. Then to Castle Street where an organic (read white/home grown) tramp sat with a skinny dog shivering in the sharp May breeze. He weakly held up a Styrofoam cup from McDonald's, mumbling the same two words, 'spare change' like a mantra to the uncaring passing bastards.
Used to be there were a lot of freaks and tramps wandered Belfast city centre. Gerry the scabey faced alco, with green weeping scabs running along the bottoms of his deep creviced wrinkles like rocks on a seabed adding a topological feel to his haggard countenance.
There is still Cyril on his bike, and from each handle bar hangs a Tesco or a Sainsbury’s bag stuffed full of other plastic bags rolled up tight into balls. Bogdan reckons it could be some type of push bike ballast he has going on.
I thought about getting myself a bike, though I am afraid of being clipped by a passing bus or a yahoo in his 4x4 (I hate those cunts).
Other cunts I hate are those fuckrags with their personalised number plates. I once saw a man drive along in a Volvo sporting a personalised number plate. On a Volvo. At least put it on a Ferrari or some other cock-motor where’s it’s completely fitting (like a glittery accessory complementing an equally glittery and grotesque ensemble.) Putting it on a Volvo’s like giving a basketball to a midget.
When Kimba came back into my life I thought that it’d be nice, that I’d enjoy the company. For so long I’d been sitting all alone on my sofa willing myself to see recognisable shapes in the random plaster smudges on my wall, comforting myself with the flakey notion this was a sign the universal consciousness was sending me messages of positive encouragement – this is how barren and desolate the landscape of my life was. I was going stir crazy. It got to a point that that oft thought sentiment materialised: I’d love a bit of company. . .But I have now realised that that phrase should come with the proviso that it really depends on who’s company you mean.
Kimba just won’t fuck up. Between her prolonged paranoid ramblings about chemtrails and Mad Otis’s scatty and aggrieved declarations of war on any and all I am scratching for silence like a man hanging of a ledge grasps for grip. Kimba is also insisting I declare my love for her. I tell her it is too early for that kind of thing and she, in response, has stopped my bumming rights. Saying that, I still get to ball her. Feeding her face isn’t the only type of stuffing Kimba requires, the fat horny cunt.
She mutters, between talk of nanoparticles being introduced into our system via cereals, and the ghost of JFK, that she is going to bring a pal of hers over, a wee spide called Pinky. She wants Pinky to be in a threesome with me and her. I told her I was not averse to this in principal, but that I would have to see a picture of Pinky first to see if he was handsome or not. I think she is a little bit annoyed by this. It is my feeling she wanted me to feel threatened and jealous so’s I’d finally tell her I love her, a thing I’m not much good at anyway, saying the word ‘love’. But, when the time does come when my hand is forced I think I will play her this song – which says things about commitment a lot more succinctly than I ever could/would...
