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: