Pretty Paper, Pretty Ribbons Of Blue, Wrap Your Presents To Your Darling From You

As featured in Third Sunday Blog Carnival

After that scatty little detour – haha! – I’m back functioning to the best of my abilities again and putting all the words in their proper order. Praise be! 

Christmas didn’t turn out too bad after all despite Mother inviting Uncle Dudley, who, at this time of year, gets pissed every day from the night of Children In Need onward till he’s stone broke a few days after New Year’s and he can drink no more. I would suppose that he is drunk more so between this period as it is fair to say he is drunk generally most the year round. 

In this very drunk state he tends to antagonise people, crossly accusing them of engineering plots to bring about his downfall. Trying to get them to own up to these conspiracy’s – or he'll at least, finally, pleadingly, request some abstract clue as to how to avoid ruin.

As well in attendance were that fucking holyjoe moonbeam Nirab, who before Christmas Dinner tried to fucking rap grace, then gimmie a wink after like I’d think he were fuckin boss of the bus or something. Earlier to that, to freak Nirab out, Uncle Dudley held one of Mother’s many crosses over the flame from the cooker in the kitchen then stuck it into his forehead upside down branding himself with it, like Glen Benton outta Deicide. All through dinner Uncle Dudley sat staring out Nirab trying to freak him out with his mad upside down cross, but that dirty snake Nirab, cold and barren as a nun’s cervix, didn’t take him on at all – making me think it mattered to him neither way the wanton sacrilege of the Gentle Jesus’ Club pin badge.

After dinner Micheesha, Stupid Peter and their kids came in. Micheesha’d told Mother on Christmas Eve Eve that she was on some special diet and that she couldn’t have the usual X-mas fare. But that was all lies, cos she told me, in secret, that Mother’s turkey when she did it it was like plasterboard garnished with sawdust and wrapped in sandpaper going down, which is exactly how I’d described it last year, and was exactly how it were this year. That selfish cunt Nirab went through a jug and a half of water on his.

Over brandy and Christmas pud’ Nirab turned his attentions to Uncle Dudley and beat him in the staring out game. Uncle Dudley began to cry like he does when drunk/emotional and got the better of. Then Nirab nearly choked on the penny in the pudding and everybody laughed, apart from Mother, who beat Nirab’s back rapidly, squealing and trying to get it up…

We retired into Mother’s lounge to get pissed and I asked Micheesha what she’d had for dinner instead.

 - We stapped at thuh fuckin Muck’Danalds over utt Connswater!

 - Lucky packa cunt’s, - I went. – You have any burgers left in the motor?

 - Do I fuck! – Went Micheesha. - Fuckin kids gobbled em up like Hungry Hungry Hippos. Me and Stupid Peter only hod a carton of chips between us! I'm'Ah be starvin, Danny! And so'll Stupid Peter. And he cant hold his liquor at thuh besta times, nevur mine when he's boozin! 

I went outside and got into Stupid Peter’s car and sniffed some empty McDonald’s bags to get my taste buds working again after getting them terraformed by Mother’s dry bird. After that I found one of the children’s Heat Magazines and pulled one out over Tina from Corrie going to some X-mas do all dressed to the 9’s. When I were done I stared into the sky and resolved to get some authentic muff in 2012. Then I went back inside.

In the short time I’d been out Nirab had recruited Stupid Peter into his God cult. I tried to renounce Nirab and his fairy tales and tell Stupid Peter that Christ the Messiah was most likely a prototype EBE*, a forerunner of common man – now broke from the shackles of apeman impulses by being imbued with Space Genes, transforming us into the fast thinking, imaginative and above all compassionate specimens we are today…

 

But Stupid Peter was well gone, all the way along Nirab’s Yellow Brick Road. I give up on him then ruminated on Nirab’s powers of persuasion, his stealth and speed and cunning in getting the simple minded to get on his side. And I also begun to wonder had I found our front man in me and Party Time’s Credit Card Fraud scheme…if so, the first stop was getting to see if he were in any financial dif’s one way or another…Maybe a drab, hopeless Christmas and a ominous New Year were beginning to look up, the fortunes flipping, an inversion of fate, as in like Uncle Dudley’s upside down God’s cross stuck into his noggin.

*EBE: Extraterrestrial Biological Entity

I Miss The Comfort In being Sad

Christmas is coming and there was no even hope to get the cunt, my mother, even a token. I got her a false witness wrapped in a bow; a disease covered pungent sound...Nirab's hirab-ed 3-stage blender mulcher was one thing even her life never spread to, but provided for little cousins' md nephews and shifty eyed peadophile

There were this blotchy cunt came up to mah in the Garage round the corner from me, there was this reatard, this Educationally Subnormal who told me he'd recurring dreams abouts canine fucksex falling zitpoppped, spewring ,splewhing, but really dri'ven from the root and splashed across the fucking mantle offfffffffff...

I don'tknow what else to sat. there is some evl in this world. There are children that will tesify to: 'They tortured my penis...' and girls' that say: 'they ate mah clit...'...Evil, horrible cannibalistic shit; shit beyond the survival I believe, shit beyond occult, routine, occult/routine?....Be you sacrificing yir foxes or yir orphans I am pulp-palp-In

No, but you gotta keep yer eyes open, 'if ye wanna sling, sling for what yih slingin fir,' says Party Time, and 'keep yir eyes peeled 4 those'll try'an fuck'you!!!'. ' Samw as in J_______, or C_______ T____ or B__________ or U__________ or G__________ or wherever, but what I got plannned, beyond these weekend gangasteres yir all so annomoured with is them fearful shut-in's, those wierdo's and oddballs who don;t just quite get it in the here&now but who will do when its all too late but (and its all in the downlow from here on in) then I hopr we'll be: baricade behind our door, with: a wardrobe, a cache of tinned goods, a source of light, a source of radio, a baracade and weapons ands weapons and weapons and whatever Mad Otis can exchange, cos that's the limits that I think the controlllers will bring us to.........

Gideon's Words Will Not Save Them

I tried hanging myself the other day as Party Time's gone and done a bunk and I was left to go round to the shop to buy heating credits, something I just couldn't be bothered doing – and so I thought to myself, 'instead of having to go outside into the cold night to buy heating and thus being left to freeze to death here at home I may as well just get it over with and kill myself by hanging.' But, would you credit it? The fucking rope I got outta the cupboard under the sink were too long and when I threw myself off the upstairs landing I landed smack on my ankle right in the front hall, the rope still well slack. And now that fuckin ankle's massively swollen up and aches dully and continually.

Party Time and I hit a little impasse in our Credit Card Fraud scheme by the fact that we learned that a few online transactions require a Billing Address + we still can't come up with good cover for snapping folks' cards on our phones (ideas here would be appreciated).

Ju-Ju Brush moved out after a week and a half or so after he met some ex of his in the Slimeshite (The Limelight) who took pity on him and brought him home to nurse him back to wellness, sorta like you would a wounded cat you'd found on the road.

I am glad of this, his moving out, as his Harmonium playing was getting right on my goat. As well as this he had started doing my nut in with his autistic recollection of Top 10's from the last fifteen years. He'd shout em out (Bruno Brooks/Tony Blackburn styli) sounding like a right Head Spastic – like those lags in prison who recite, verbatim, horse racing commentary out loud to keep their mind busy.

Still, I miss having company, and that cat, who I've named Worf (cos he's a clingy little cunt – a little Klingon), has some unidentifiable learning difficulty and as a result is no fun at all. He is robotic in his movements and completely unresponsive to stimuli. I even caught a little mouse in a trap out the back and tied him to a piece of fishing line, dangling it in front of Worf, but he didn't even display a disinterested contempt, just a...nothingness. Definitely a retarded feline...

I am reminded of Kimba's birth mother by this halfwit cat. She used to live in a very tiny bedsit on India Street off Botanic. As her quarters were so small she couldn't have what she wanted most in the world, which was a 'Cute little Puddy Cath' as she put it, irritatingly, with fake lisp and all...So she went and bought this robot cat outta Argos, some child's thing, what did a few tricks. One trick was it could respond to this trinket-y mouse shaped lazer pen thingy by following it with its eyes very slowly when you shone it on the wall. It moved its head like an elderly woman with arthritis in her neck and its miaows sounded like the wails of those abandoned Romanian orphans you see on the news every so often. She finally got sick of it and took it apart, hanging its head and other bits of it from her Christmas Tree one year.

Tonight I am considering whether to put a tree up or not. Thinking of Kimba's birth mother's robot cat I am inevitably brought back to the memory of Kimba herself via the mother. Thoughts wrought sadly thinking that the company I'd like most of all this time of year would be her's, and on Christmas Day, opening presents with her sitting under our big grand colourful Christmas Tree that she always made up so pretty, we'd tell blue jokes to one another from outta the latest Viz Annual and get drunk on Vodka shots...ah, the technicolor memories strung with blinking plastic lights.

They'd Dance To The Rhythm Of The Rain Falling Down, In A Northern Industrial Town

Ju-Ju Brush, me and Party Time have been getting on famously.

He cooks and cleans and plays us little Irish ditties on his tin whistle after supper.

Still, he hasn't been much of a help on mine and Party Time's scheme of Credit Card Fraud. I think it is to do with his personal morality stopping him from thinking creatively or intuitively about it. Sort of like when the Puritanical lot ran the show, nobody could think of any way of fucking outside of the missionary position – then, with the gradual casting-off of mores – from the advent of the printing press to Nietzsche and the pill, people tried it different ways, thought about it more imaginatively, leading to porn & snuff, what we got now, turning a profit more or less.

So that was why Ju-Ju had to get over the morality hump and think about things more imaginatively. If sexual liberation < snuff were any indication then amorality > self enrichment were the way to go. And I knew he had creativity flowing through his organs – his musical prowess proved this – but he had to harness this Gog/Magog given power, give himself over to it and abandon this self imposed morality, only a earthbound false construct anyway...

So I said to Ju-Ju, - Ju-Ju, look man: There ain't no sin been committed in Credit Card Fraud. Nobody gets robbed, nobody gets hurt. The bank pays out, baby! What you got actually is a very moral act. We rob these people and the bank pays em back, so in effect we robbin the bank, y'know?!

 - Well you still are sort of robbing somebody...-

 - You fuckin serious? Really? I suppose though banks and corporations got status as peoples now, don't they? But they've robbed from the public purse in a massive transfer of wealth. And now they aren't paying back their debt, but giving their bosses big fuck-off bonuses again. If you lend your pal a fiver you expect him to pay you back right? Well these fuckers aren't...so what we're doin is beginning to re-right the balance of things.

 - Yeah...but that's not really my point...I mean some bank manager might get demoted, or a cleaner might get laid off, -

 - Fuck em...you not been listening what I'm saying? Some bank manager gets the chop – he's a legitimate victim...so to speak...

 - And what about the cleaner? What about him or her? That's the thing, ain't it? I mean I been fucked plenty and it ain't pleasant, so I made a vow to myself never to fuck anyone else....

 -Fuckin hell then man. OK.

Boy's gonna take some work...

I took a walk out to clear my head and think of new ways to talk Ju-Ju round when I found I'd dandered right into town without even noticing. I began to wonder then about the new Titanic fervor bubbling round here: the 'Unsinkable Ship' now never sunk, always rising from the depths, exhumed from the deep deep sea in the shape of models, and scale models, and life like models, and Hollywood (Mafia $$$ backed) Motion Pictures. I thought to myself: this phenomena, this cultural attachment to a tragedy and a disaster, costing 3000 souls, celebrated/commemorated and turned into a theme park attraction, a Spielbergian vision of mass perishing. But we here seem to get beset with tragedy and disaster, and while the Titanic was a tragic act of God our latest run of tragedy and disaster in the shape of “The Troubles” was completely man-made and also cost around 3000 souls and (but also) pulls in the tourist pound. There has also been Hollywood Motion Pictures made about The Troubles too, and no doubt when everything, the rest of the 'Dirty War', gets swept under the carpet entirely and occasionally apologised for, there'll be models, and scale models, and life like models done in action figurines, and video games, and nerdish reenactments, respectively.

So, I thought, if 3000 souls lost on a sunken ship calls for a theme park, then 3000 souls lost to bullets and Semtex can, too...and how much more fun that would be....sure, fuck, it'd be like a day out at the LazerQuest so it would!!!!!!!!!!!!

And so I thought if some Freemason developer can build his Titanic Theme Park, then fuckin, me, Daniel Pongo can build his fuckin “The Troubles” LazerQuest....but first....but first....you gotta spend money to make money – and when you gotta spend money you gotta have money – but when you don't have money you gotta steal money – and who we gonna steal money off? The banks. And who's gonna do it? Party Time, Ju-Ju Brush and Daniel Pongo...

Try To Tell The Truth And Stand Your Ground - Don't Let The Bastards Get You Down

Today I were walking through town with Party Time when this crazy old man coming toward us in the opposite direction (this was going along Wellington Place) stops this oul doll, a fat valuer-sporting millie, and a youngster stuck between them both, holding granny and mummy's hand (for that was the scene), and the crazy old man, he leans down to the youngster (a boy), and takes his head between his hands, gently, and starts to moo at him and scrunch up his face all sentimental and sad like, then he screams, right in the boy's face “That's the badger!” And just like that he goes on, doing a twirl and mumbling to himself a happy ditty – then, as he draws up level with us, he laughs and groans and laughs and groans over and over again, - his frame goes all loose and he looks skyward, curling his fingers up, thrusting his hands up in the air imploringly toward a greater power. I look past him and I see the youngster has appeared to have passed out and is being dragged along by the granny and mummy to their great consternation. I am linking the two. Thinking the crazy old man happened to have caused the unconsciousness of the youngster through the power of thought alone.

Party Time and I went and sat outside a greasy spoon called The Windmill; drinking coffee just like proper gangsters. It is my contention that Party Time's plan to surreptitiously photograph the fronts of peoples' Credit Cards is an inspired criminal strategy....It allows for the fraudster to circumvent the time limit imposed when actually tea-leafing a Credit Card – the time limit due to the owner realising the card's gone and ringing his bank to cancel it. I mean...you got the details off the front of the card, photographed, and memorised the 3-digit security number on the back. Cunt's not gonna know what's happened till he gets his statement in and that could be weeks away – by then we coulda bought up half the department stores in Belfast on the fucker's dime.

So it was up to me and Party Time to devise the hook. As in: how do we get a hold of peoples' Credit Cards? What sort of front do we set up that people will hand over their Credit Cards long enough for one of us to get a snap of it on our phone.

Just as the both of us sunk back in our chairs in a pensive and criminal repose - trying to devise a scheme - along comes a great old pal of mine, Ju-Ju Brush.

 - Hello there, Ju-Ju Brush, - I said.

 - Danny Pongo! How're you doin old pal? - exclaimed Ju-Ju Brush.

After Ju-Ju Brush got himself a nice old cup of java he joined me and Party Time at our table and before he even took a tentative little sip to check for hotness he launches into this halting and sad monologue about his recent troubles...and I haven't even seen the cunt in fuckin years.

 - Danny, I'm in shockin trouble.

 - Oh dear. What seems to be the problem, Ju-Ju?

 - Well Danny, you remember back in school I used to play the harmonium, don't you?

 - That I do Ju-Ju.

 - Well I kept it up, after school like, became a regular on the circuits with my trusty harmonium. Then 6 months ago I moved in with that cunt, that fuckin DJ bastard Pilers McCake, you know him, Danny?

 - Oh yes. Local mover & shaker and scene setter. Has a little parochial hour on our local State Sponsored airwaves.

 - That's him. Well he put me in his band. Thought I was destined for the Big Time, so I did. Gonna put the harmonium on the musical map, you know, Danny?

 - That I do, Ju-Ju. I'm a champion of the underdog mahself -

 - Right, so you know were I'm coming from. Well we recorded a demo and fuckin Pilers McCake goes away and remixes it. Fuckin back masks the harmonium -

 - Whah thah than? - Asks Party Time.

 - That's when they, like, play an instrument backward over a track. And so that's what the cunt did. Fuckin harmonium's gonna be the laughing stock of the music world now. You should hear it! And this McCake cunt with his mate Bamber Swirlington, that here's-me-and-who's-like-me coke-fiend nincompoop editor of Assassins Of Cool Magazine, are gonna be releasing the demo this week, with an eye on releasing it as a single. This can't happen. So I sent a coffeejar bomb to Assassins Of Cool Magazine's offices. It weren't real, like. Just a big coffeejar with a little clock inside with two batteries bluetac'd on and a few wires sellotaped to the back of it. Then I wrote a letter to the controllers over at the State Sponsored Airwaves up there, told them that Pilers McCake was not a man possessed of musical integrity but possessed very much of a great and sleeket mendacity and that they should take him off the airwaves at once. I also sent the police and the controllers over the State Sponsored Airwaves photos I'd mocked up of Pilers and Bamber going at it with an Alsatian and Madeline McCann respectively.

 - Good on ye, Ju-Ju. They won't know their arse from their elbow now!

 - Yeah but then the shit turned ugly. The photos were a joke. Yid've known they were a photoshop job a mile off. The Controllers of the State Sponsored Airwaves launched an investigation and the cops've put out an APB for me arrest. Shit's turned REAL bad. Cops, I hear, are itching to pin a terrorist charge on someone that ain't the Provo Tribute Acts -

 - Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaha! That's what I call em too, - I chortled.

 Ju-Ju Brush looked at me a moment or two, a little perturbed, then continued, - Yeh, so, the PSNI have been told they gotta up their quota of Muslim Terror Cells here, and I've been told by folk that while there ain't many of them around Belfast, some loan wolf nut like me, sending pretend bombs to poncey music magazines, is just right up their alley.

 - Well Ju-Ju Brush, Me and my cousin Party Time here are a little at a loss in getting together a little scheme we got goin down. Maybe we could get another head in on trying to devise a jumping off point for it. Why'nt you come hang out with us for a bit? Player Haters will always find safe harbour with us, ain't that right Party Time?

 - Thah rah, - said Party Time.

So we drank back the rest of our coffee the three of us and went off sneaking cautiously through entries all the way back home just all so Ju-Ju Brush weren't spotted by the law..........

Diamond In The Back, Sunroof Top, Diggin' The Scene With A Gangster Lean

Party Time, thank fuck, was able to secure himself a crisis loan from the brew today – so this weekend we'll be eating.

I was beginning to think that he was going to eat the cat (not calling him Gore Vidal anymore) so hungry was he. His stomach rumbled all last night, something sounding like the pained moans of a wounded creature echoing through the deep, dark cave it'd crawled away to die in.

When I am hungry like this I swallow my spit a lot. Swallow, swallow swallow. As a child I thought I didn't need to work in school to get a good job cos you didn't need money, really:

 - And what you gonna eat. What food you gonna buy with no money? - Scolded Mother when I began striking from doing homework.

 - I'll eat my own shit if it comes to it. Eat it, Shit it, Eat it, Shit it – Just go and sit somewhere along Castle Street begging till I make up enough coin to get me a Big Mac Meal...and...Eat it, Shit it, Eat it, Shit it...

 - What is WRONG with you, eh? Trembled Mother.

And last night I were thinking, really: was my childhood naivety and general lack of rudimentary biological & toxicological facts really so naïve? Were it really so bad? To eat yer own feces if absolutely starving? Those chicks in 2girls 1cup did it, and them on 'specialised' pornstar wages, they  wouldn't have needed to eat shit cos they were starving, but cos they wanted to get paid – and so if you can eat shit to get paid you can eat shit to eat is what I were turning over in my dried up, nutrient starved brain.

I proposed my ideas to Party Time but he didn't like em at all.

He told me it were beyond savage. That a savage would kill and eat another savage,:

 - Bat somethan b'yand savage eat at awn shat!

 - What about we shoot a few birds outta Mrs Mullberry's trees and eat them?

 - Nah. Ah wall nat eat a crate-ture aff thah ska.

I rolled around holding my belly and nibbling on an orange peel I found up the side of the cooker. Party Time began doing exercises.

 - Ah hav idea, Danny.

 - What?

 - Ah wash tinkin. Wah fatagraft papals' cradat card.

 - How we manage to do that? And why?

 - Ah danna yacht, hah. But aff wah culd, wah have all thah dat-tails wah need tah rap a cant aff jast fram ah sall-fone fatta aff thah frant aff has card, an mammary-rising thah scare-ity nambah an thah bach an rattin thah dan wan his gane!

 - That's not a bad idea Party Time. Not at all is that a bad idea. Cos that's all you need, right? The 'Long Number', the name, valid to – and – from, all what you'll get of the phone-photo of the front of it...and that security number yiv got written down. Then we'll go online and buy up a loada shit. Sell it down in Cash Convertors, what we don't want! Fuckin hell, you big cunt, that's the first brilliantly criminal thing yiv come up with, despite yer gangster leanings. Goddamn! I may be starving, but this deserves a fitting tune, cousin!!! We'll think of HOW we do it when we've something in our bellies and our energy's up!

Its Time For A Cowboy To Dream

Yesterday morning's Jeremy Kyle show was entitled 'Kids Used To Call Me Burnt Toast'.

The poor girl that Kyle was emotionally effacing had a head like a raisin. She had no nose and her eyes were all watery and closed over like the eyes of poor bunnies that get shampoo poured in em for shampoo safety testing.

As is always the case with Kyle's contestants the reason for her horrific head (the result of very severe burns) was bad parenting – this time in the shape of a drunken father with one arm and a glass eye who poured a chip pan fulla hot fat into her cot where she slept.

At his trial he claimed he was going for the girl's dog that'd shite in his slipper, but the dog, being cunning, slid under the cot at just the right time to avoid the torrent of boiling chip fat.

I had a wank over one of the dimwits in the audience then got up to go down and wait for the man to come fix my light.

Downstairs Party Time had effected his plan to cover up the holes he'd made in the living room walls trying to shoot that bat with his lead pellet rifle. He'd gotten these big white sheets from somewhere and painted on them all, very crudely, all these bestial, pornographic figures engaged in carnal acts – large groups of figures, some fellating rectangle shaped cocks sprouting from big thick sausage shaped legs, some shagging children and animals, others weeping in corners - all ferocious, fevered stuff rendered in scouring reds and blacks. He had hung them right the way around the room, covering every inch of wall. It looked like cave paintings done by a deranged primitive.

 - What the fuck is this filth, Party Time? - I said.

 - At ash murals cavrin the holy walls.

 - The man's gonna think we're involved in some type of sex ritual cult, you know...fuckin hell, man!

 - Hah wall nat. Papal dant care abat yer prah-vat afars. He ah spark calming tah fax yer light, nat a social car warker!

 - I'm not very confident about this situation Party Time, I have to say...

It turned out I'd nothing to worry about. Some boss eyed moron arrived whistling The Sash and got it sorted in 15 minute, and in that time, in order to distract him from Party Time's crayon-eater sex doodles, I said to him:

Bit outta season for that wee ditty ain't it?

Every day's the 12^th in this here head mate, - he said tapping his temple.

Ah the glorious 12^th, eh?

Most glorious day of the year, mate!

Ahhh..., - I went. - Here, you like shadow puppets, - I went, making a little rabbit ears on my white hall wall. The year-round Orangeman was greatly taken by this.

He a Orange monkey? - He went.

No he's a loyalist rabbit! - Said I.

Later me and Party Time went round to Micheesha's so I could see if she'd lend me a score. Mother was with her, crying into her tea.

It turns out she's a rival in her love affair with Nirab. She says this rival uses the successes of her children in a point scoring game with her.

 - I wish I could say you two were both dead...but I can't cos Nirab knows yer both alive, he's met you both...but if I said you were dead, both of you, at least I could get out of this game with Lavinya and cash in some sympathy chips with the rest of The Movement (Nirab's God Cult) - said Mother, bawling.

 - You could say I do special work for the government that you can't talk about, - I offered.

 - I think its fuckin offensive if you ask me, - moaned Micheesha. - Yah want us dead do you? We'll I'll tell you wah, sometimes I wish I were dead w'these fuckin chill'rin pesterin me for shite 24/7 and Stupid Peter comin in all hours of the day and night smellin ah other dolls' cunt seepage – I FUCKIN WISH I WAS DEAD SOMETIMES - so tell you what, Ma, you buy us the ticket tah that suicide camp over in Switzerland or whereever the fuck and i'll go there, get their shot, and I'll be outta yer hair then, eh?

 - ...Or I could say you got a family, Micheesha, but even at that Nirab knows none, not one of those wains are from the same seed, - went Mother like what Micheesha had just said had washed over her in an amnesiac dropout.

 - Ah fuck ye then, - whined Micheesha -

 I for one thought it better not to ask for a lend of a score of Micheesha now. So me and Party Time left.

No money and in for a hungry night. 

 

So Let Your Cold Blue Lonely Strings Cry Once Again For Me

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You Clipped My Wings Before I Learnt to Fly. Unspoiled. Unspoken. I've Outgrown That Fucking Lullaby

Lady Gaga hasn't called back yet. Don't think she will.

Party Time scored for us some nice yellow coloured speed today off this jittery Polish chap who looked like he'd Cerebral Palsy or like a real bad series of tics the way his head popped off to the side or the way his frame jerked..

He picked us up in that lay-by by along the Lagan Towpath, before you get to Annadale Flats, which is somewhere I used to live. This little lay-by is well of the road, and I imagine at night a good spot for dogging. It were my contention to Party Time that you could rig up little cameras and mics in the foliage area along the edge of the towpath and that you could make good blackmail money off of it.

 - Bet you'd make the King's Ransom, - I went.

 - A fockhan fore-tune – went Party Time. - It ash mah believe ah believe thah yah wad Gat sam Hagh profall faces at thah' rand hare?!?

 - Yup... - I went.

The jittery Pole got to us just after sundown.

He took us up through Stranmillis. We came up along some of these little co-eds walking along and he wound his window down and started barking like a dog at them. They wiggled along in their sheer leggings with their VPL laid out like fuckin veins on a smackhead's arm. I was feeling mightily embarrassed by the jittery Pole's barking. Every time his frame jerked the car lurched over to the side. A couple of times he nearly went up onto the footpath – the second time nearly careering right into an old granny carrying a bag of Satsumas.

We met his man down the Lower Ormeau. This bunch of psychedelic punksters – their hair dyed psychedelic, garish yellows and reds, - lived in the house we went into. Most of them spoke Eastern European languages. Fat Sandra was there with her fella. She was, like every other time I've seen her, tearing little corners of a roll of toilet paper and eating it.

 - Hello, Fat Sandra, - I went.

 - Who as thahs cant? - Inquired Part Time.

 - This is Fat Sandra, - went I.

 - Ah rat, - went Party Time.

The jittery Pole, who'd been summoned into a back room when we got in the house, came back out with a crouched over old man with a white beard and long white hair, who I reckoned was the fabled Gandalf of the L______ R___. The old wizened cunt proceeded to try and freak me out by standing dead close to my person and making out like he were throwing little bits of things at me. He would hold his hand up, lining it up with his eye, with his thumb and forefinger only an inch or so apart, like he held something daintily within, like an object, and he would draw it back a little and squint, like he were lining shit up, then he would go to throw this thing at me, but really there was nothing there, but he were quite convincing in making believe there was, and trying to get me to believe the same. When I told him I could see the balls, that they were the size of about Brussels Sprouts and black in colour, he laughed ruefully then ceased his shenanigans.

He give me and Part Time a good deal on the speed he sold us.

I fucking love speed. It gives me precision in my game of wits with Party Time. It gives me precision also in my recountings. It gives me precision in choosing my words. In constructing the right syntax.

Part Time's mind is like a major city's citizens after they've been overrun by an invading army during wartime. It is susceptible to the crudest of propaganda. Fuck's sake – I once told him the provo's had an airforce and if you were out and you heard an air raid siren you had to go seek cover under the nearest thing – cars, whatever.

One day when we were kids, some time round Christmas when he were over for a visit, me and him went up to my pal Bogdan's house. I'd given Bogdan reasonable forewarning of our coming up to his and made him privy to my Provo airforce yarn. I told him to cue up his sound effects CD in his HI-FI and to put it at his window and wait for my call. When he saw us at the bottom of his street, I told him, he would play the recorded noise of an air raid siren from the Sound Effects CD through the HI- FI at his window. And so when the young me and the young Party Time dandered up Bogdan's street that cold Christmas week afternoon we suddenly heard the noise of an old WW2 air raid siren echoing through the place, and Party Time dived under the nearest van griping loudly about the Irish being the blacks of Europe and how where he was from this was just bakers' buns, airforce squadrons flying sorties.

Later on Party Time, after huffing loadsa speed, told me about how now he'd got word that he had a little newborn nephew back in where he's from.

This makes him very sad as he cannot return to his homeland and commune with his blood as he has a bounty on his head back there. He tells me this was the very beginning of his problems:

 - Ah wash gatling dan wah sam bad cants. Bad. Ra'al Bad. Gat tah ah pint ah rhab'd thah lah-cal dealers ahf thah Christ-All ahn aftah thah they cam roun' tah mah gaff, ahn chass mah thru the 'hood. Thah stab mah in thah stomach wah blade, and shoot affar mah. Ah ram'mamber thah afternoon ah flee the homelann'. Ah wash listeening tah thash track:

 - blad purring atta mah! Ah sald the Christ-All atta knockdown prace and buy a ticket tah London...!!! Tah frahdome!!!  

Fuck The #MTVEMAs

Was in two minds today whether to dander into town (one thing I haven't mentioned is that my motor's packed in). But I did as I reckon being a man of limited means and fewer prospects I will never leave the Bellshite, nor, in my lifetime, get to see the denizens herein getting their two-tone psyches so lavishly catered to by such a grand American extravaganza – the last big American extravaganza of its magnitude probably being WW2.

I thought to myself, approaching the giant luminous blue-tit biodome of the Victoria Square Shopping Centre, that really things were no busier – just as many feet on the ground – as any other Saturday afternoon – but there was a difference – a difference evidenced in the deep, swirling glazed eyes of all – and I started to realise that every conversation I were in earshot of were to do with the fucking #MTVEMAs. Old and young alike carried themselves like they were the protagonist in some NI Tourist Board ad on 'The New Emerging Belfast'.
                 

Clusters of impeccably togged up hipsters with well-sculpted hairstyles mingled between Starbucks and the Kitchen Bar – boys and girls 18-25, 25+, - The Relevant (cos this is the demographic where yer chances and spending power are at their optimum) swarming like germs and white blood cells. In amongst them all the old (anyone above aforementioned age bracket) permeated like incorporeal wraiths faintly making their presence felt in this dimension. I were one of these zombies. I staggered trough them all in my tracksuit/pajamas and my big yellow mac feeling like a refugee from some underground city come up into 'civilization'....The hair-swishing make-believe, the poise outside bars like they imagined they were gonna be surreptitiously pap-ed any minute, the boys in their shades long after the frigid sun'd gone in, the old getting lost, being, “are we going the right way” - made me (for once) relish the sight of nearly two-dozen pigs – if only to make the spot a legitimate target for the latest Provo Tribute Act...

I went down into the belly of Victoria Square, down into to the subbasement car park for a quick toke. Down there I could see right up through the crisscross of escalators, right up to the dark-tinted areola of the luminous blue-tit biodome, the capstone of this murky “shopping mecca” - and as a mecca it possesses our unmistakeable drab Ulster piety complementing perfectly Consumerism's universally dark architecture. I was struck by a vision then, a memory from my own future, or possibly that of a future incarnation, slipped from the bondage of Eternal Return that this awful place would soon house a great many number of citizens, corralled in here, the walkways and platforms and deep, voluminous square stores fulfilling their true purpose, which was to act as a 21^st century gulag --- In my vision I heard the groans and the occasional scream of the emasculated future citizen, under the yoke, body and soul, eyes leaping out, spurred by memories of criminal spectacles more grotesque, more baneful than words can tell...then these screams from the future, full of dread and suffering were replaced by the screams of the now, the present, which were full of hysteria and insane, uber-longing...

I went up the escalator gingerly, dropping down every few steps when the thing brought me too near the top. I could make out this mass of feet running – as one – from one side of the complex to the other – clad in identical trainers – they resembled in their kinetic mass the birds going round and round the Albert Bridge looking for a safe perch for the night.

Justin! Justin! - They screamed. From the car park behind me I heard a screech of tyres and imagined it was the dulcet smile-android being spirited away by his Illuminati handlers. It seems his pubescent, foamy-gashed fans had kenned this fact also, and sensed his leaving the vicinity, for they swamped the escalators (the down one AND the up one) forcing me to leap into the gutter in the middle and slide back down to the bottom like Al Pacino at the end of Carlito's Way. The harried me and knocked me as they stampeded after the limo and as they went I watched for the legal-looking ones and give them all a good groping as they whizzed by.

Another lasting impression was the amount of twats that done themselves up to resemble the famous ones, in order I reckon for them to possibly experience the blanket adoration and attention, if only for a minute or two, before the ego mosquitoes twig it isn't really the ''slab', and fuck of spitting and cursing at the trembling fame-starved cunt. For example, I saw three Lady Gagas around the place, with one of em so authentic looking she got approached by two journo looking types and a man with a proper looking press camera. When the kids got a load of this they came running too, obeying the tic-tac-toe of their celebrity obsessed minds. I, too was drawn into the maelstrom, around the outside, to see if it really was High Priestess and baby-eater Lady Gaga...but the girl opens her mouth in response to some generic questioning from the journo saying:

 - Wah??? - Fock Aff! Aye, I gat mah tackat here, so ah do! - and she pulled it outta her cleavage, that elusive (figurative) golden ticket, when one of the popster's from the rabble's arm shoots out, snatches it off her, and this wee anorexic looking bint peels of from the screaming heads, like newborn hatchlings, and takes off down the street with it bawling in a high, helium pitched tonality befitting of her weak looking little frame. 

The poor Gaga-a-like stood there, tears tripping her, till she were pushed into the wall and the hordes chased the ticket-stealer.

I remained and took a good look at Lady Gaga. On closer inspection she didn't really make the cut. She'd a load of Harp beer tins as curlers in her (well) dyed peroxide mop, but she weren't skinny or short enough, her makeup was too off-white and her left ear was askew in the fashion of a dogeared page in a book.

Where you gonna go now, - I went.

Nowhere, by lucks ahf thangs, sobsob – she went.

Wee bitch, eh?

Yup.

I took her for coffee and she took her Harp-tin rollers out and wiped off most of her makeup. She wiped her lipstick off and rummaged around in her bag for a bit then emptied it onto the table. Amongst a load of balled up tissues, keys and around a dozen jubes there were lots and lots of lipsticks. She took the tops off three of em – electric citrus, Kylie Minogue Pink, and Big Top Red. She considered them all for a bit then applied the electric citrus. She looked good.

We walked through Victoria Square the rest of the way and I spotted more of those studied celebrity doubles – the twat taking the prize most modeling himself on David Guetta so good that while going along, carrying a load of records over his shoulder, he got mobbed by a bunch of popsters looking smile-android Bieber's mobile no.. The popsters, though, on inspecting his bag of records, discovered they were no more than a bunch of cardboard squares, but not before 'Guetta' got their numbers off them promising to 'pass them on to Justin.' I wondered how many of these celeb-a-likes going around were the attention starved, starry-eyed celebrity-aspiring, and how many were possessed of murkier intentions – their resemblance to the authentically famed being the bait of these toothsome 21^st century pied pipers...

I asked Lady Gaga about this. She said, - Dunno about tha', Danny, but I tell you wha' – plenty of pink ballets in the offing the next couple of days...

We reached Corn Market where a lonesome nut were loudly positing that the whole affair was nothing more than a 'mega-ritual' a simulation of 'occult blood-sacrifice' and a nod to a kabbalistic-masonic esotericism – the teachings of which belonged to them (and them alone) running the world behind the scenes of common times.

 - Fuckin hell, - I went.

 - Realer than you know, Danny – said Lady Gaga.

 - ...And dey will stage some blood drenched bestial sex rite – they will fetishize our approaching police state with scantily clad centurions of the street...- Still the mad cunt was sporting the best Tee of the night – what took me ages to source...

I took a hold of Lady Gaga, up an alley off Linenhall St, and frigged her till she started seeping at the hoof. She wanked me to I shot it out all over her tight tigerprint one-piece then she took my arm and we walked away, and I said,

You bunkin up with me tonight, Gaga - when a little cunt came up behind us and snatched her bag with all her jubes in it...

I'd only my own busfare left to get me home, where I'd speed and my nice green from out west. When I told her I was holding she jumped at the chance to come with – and on the way back on the bus the conversation went thusly:

 - I gonna get to slice you anyway, girl? - I went.

 - Nope. No jubes neigh wuh that wee smick strokin' mah beag.

 - Yeh, baby, but you get the morning-after pill the marra?

 - That costs £30, dickhead.

 - I go halfers with you?

 - Nah. Don't trust you. What you go on you? £1.70 for thuh bus? And I won't hoave the whole £30 on me neigh I ain't got out tah work the night.

 - Shitman. How's about you say I raped you. Then you go to the cops and they'll get you a abortion for free if my seed gets fertilized....

 - She pulled this thing from her bag then. I thought it were a TV remote control at just glancing at it, - You know what this is felchy breath? Its a tazer. You try any funny business wih me the night, I'll fuckin zap ye. I'll come, smoke yer grass and huff yer speed – and what you geh out of it? Mah number.

So we went back to mine and she huffed my speed, smoked my weed and like she said, she gimmie her number – and at some point she picked this un and put it on the turntable... 

  

And We Die And We Live And We're Born Agian

I headed west last night, Black Mountain direction, to collect a 1/2oz of the nicest green that's surfaced this last bit. It has been a miserable bad run in below-par-product the last 6 months – in regards marijuana anyway, and, I have to say, speed, too.

After I got the shit My Man offered me a lift back downtown. Just as we passed the Milltown Cemetery it starts lashing it down. We come up on a sharp turn where Blackstaff Rd meets Kennedy Way, before we hit the Westwood Shopping Centre, - and in that instant just before we got round the bend there's a boom then a pop then a crunch then a short tinkling of glass on asphalt, all probably simultaneous, more or less, but heard by me distinctly, in sequence, then, completely round the bend now, we come upon the immediate aftermath of a bad accident.

My Man, a good driver when it comes to responding to the sudden and unexpected, dropped gears and glided round the debris-heavy perimeter of the wreck, oh so slowly. A Mazda, hit at good impact, was right up on the curb and was in the shape of a banana. The other motor, a nice one, like a Beamer or a Merc, sat dead centre in the opposite lane from us and its bonnet was all mashed in, totally flattened. The woman behind the wheel had her face pressed right up against the windscreen, the curve where her temple meets her forehead providing a epicenter for a big cobweb of shattered glass.

I had smoked a good bit of the rocket My Man had passed me when I got in his car with him back up the mountain. Now, passing this road traffic accident victim, completely baked, I absorb it all and am giddy for reasons that are: 2 part fresh gladness at this good new source I have found and 1 part the pure THC – and in regards that last part, the sight of this woman, her head embedded in her shattered windscreen, her legs probably mincemeated by the engine coming through the pedal well - all this abstractly registering on her face to begin with; all while she blinks so slowly: It give me the impression she was still able, in some part of her mind, to will a delay in the onset of the massive pain that was to come any second. But if this was so, the only outward expression it left her with was one of great confusion.

She opened her mouth then, and My Man rolled his window down to hear the noise she made. It was a level, bass groan. Like a zombie.

My Man said, - Fuckin kids're gonna think this is a display for Halloween.

I asked him to drop me at St Mary's a little way up the road as I'd the heebie jeebies from the state of that woman's head. I walked the rest back into town listening to this number on my Walkman:

Going along Bedford Street I come up behind this trio of pencil-necked poindexters, one a redhead in a Superman getup with the foamy muscle chest top. Then this wee cunt, drunk, done up like Rambo, lurks from somewhere with a plastic (thank fuck) bowie knife and slaps the nerd up the side of the head with it then trips him. The poindexter, props to him, stayed on his feet and went on, then let himself (and witnesses rooting for him) down when he jogged on a bit put his fist in the air and made like he was going to take off while shouting something about Jor-El...Ah...and the Rambo was all:

 - Fuckin state of you you wee fruit – think you look like Superman? Ah'll fuckin stick yer cape up yer hole and pull it out yer japs eye – be my fuckin Hall'een  trick you'll be – faggot...

I went home and listened to the news all night, to hear if that woman had died, and fell asleep to Sailing By in my lovely armchair. 

But Belfast's shit for Halloween, generally, on the costumes front, anyway.

you said it felt like when you learned to float

Mother went and fucken flipped out when she saw that the nails of my left hand, which were neatly clipped and uniform, compared to those of my right, which were gnarly - and beheld a yellowed jaundiced light when they were pointed sunward - did not match up...

My clippers snapped when I done my left hand and I ain't just got round to buying some more. - I simpered. - Well let mummy cut em for you...!!! - She went.

No I say! On guard! - I went in a tone reminiscent of noblemen proposing a duel.  

Now...

A Prayer

by

Daniel Pongo 

Please God let me die peacefully and not incrementally like the hospital serial dramas and the gov. sponsored health ads would have you believe. Let me not be stricken with a mild/severe stroke initially, to begin with, to end up losing all motor function culminating 6months later with a surgical repository attached to every orifice.

Please God let not pointless human gunge I expel internally collect in my lower recesses to darken my posterior - and all in a futile and disgusting bodily protestation spurred by one's material certitude. 

Please God let it be quick in my dreams while I lie prostate and coddled by the stasis of slumber.

Please God don't even let me jerk or spasm. Let my heart just stop and not flutter. Let me not kick out and awaken my partner; and if I sleep alone let not my vessel roll floorward to end up blocking the door.

Amen

Park The Car 20 Blocks Away And Walk To The Fight

It seems my mind went off stage temporarily. Couldn't find it anywhere...backstage between curtain calls...anywhere at all...

Party Time is back. The afternoon he rocked up at my door he presented me with a beautiful little turtle shell tabby, a thing so small it'd fit comfortably in even an infant girl's womb with plenty room left over; - for a freak nonce's fist...for anything...

I have named the little tabby Gore Vidal. It is a feisty little tom that holds the firm conviction that 'the republic is dead' – something he conveys to me in my dreams in a clipped New England accent. I love Gore Vidal very much. I nearly kissed Party Time when he pulled it outta his bag that reasonably sunny September morning. It didn't take long for the big cunt to worm his way back into my affections. As an act of contrition it were a beautiful gesture...

Gore Vidal likes to explore round all the nooks and crannies of my dirty little cave. Party Time, who had to take to the streets and sleep on the footpath this last few months has thusly chosen to sleep on the floor instead of in my bed or on the sofa, which is where he used to kip when he lived with me before. So Party Time stays down on the floor most of the time and playing with Gore Vidal I enjoy seeing his, albeit flaky, composure return.

Little Gore Vidal is a bold and inquisitive thing. One afternoon he snuck into the washing machine, in among all my dirty laundry. Later I put a wash on and the thing hadn't gone 2 seconds when I hear the little fucker screaming like a convulsing sow. So I frantically stopped the cycle and pulled the soggy moggie out. I swear I heard him giggle. Good ol' Gore Vidal.

One day low on coin I went to one of the more disreputable bars in my neighbourhood as I had a terrible thirst on for the liquor. These disreputable bars round my way are open from 7.30am and serve v.cheap alcohol. Spirits, beer, wine etc etc etc...

Party Time came with me. We dandered round there 8.15 in the morning. The sun was coming up and above the gulls circled and cackled. Unfortunately Party Time has lost his native linguistic exoticism and now those beautiful phonetics of his have been stripped of their beauty just like...a village of dusky tribeswomen molested by clap ejaculating conquistadors...just like an actor out on loan, on a daytime soap opera, who's required to present with a exotic accent but who can't keep it up – who the producers hope can revert back to linguistical terra ferma while the viewing public don't notice. He now speaks, Party Time, with a voice the sound of which falls somewhere between Johnny 'Mad Dog' Adair and Paul Rankin.

In the bar the barman, the dirty looking fucker, buffing the glasses and admiring his tats in the big mirror struggling for attention behind all the optics, regards me and Party Time, especially Party Time, with great suspicion.

 - Gimme a gin & tonic, - I went, tone of a stick up artist demanding just paper money.

 - Guinness, - went Party Time.

The barman gives us the evils. I smolder like a mildly rohypnoled Steve McQueen. Party Time pants like an angry dog.

 - Where's the carnival? There's a float missing its Fruits! - said the sarcy barman.

After I brought Party Time back down to earth, just when it looked like he were gonna stick his dick down that bastard's throat, in walks Fat Sandra, daughter of UncleDudley's on/off toothless hoor woman, Izzy Hoyland, with this dangerous looking Eastern European fella, who, on further inspection by me later, as the evening wore on, - I noticed - was sporting the wee sparrow tattoo on the flappy bit between his thumb and his forefinger.

Fat Sandra was still nibbling on bog roll to fill her stomach.

 - That must be a long diet, - I observed to her when I sidled up beside her.

The evil Eastern European looked at me like I'd two heads.

Then the mad cunt started barking at me like a dog.

Party Time got the heebie jeebies and bailed.

The evil Eastern European followed us down the street in his little Ford Coupe with its daft spoiler and chase ultra violet lights. He blasted this un at us

like fucking aural torture like what they used on the Waco holy-rollers with New Kids On The Block...fucking evil Eastern European pimp bastard...by the looks of it.

The Day I Brained Eddie Copeland

The trouble with getting up earlier in the day is you’ve longer to wait for your favourite television shows to come on. That is what I’ve been finding, rising at 8am like I’ve been doing this last week due to the heavy heat.

Quite near my house the Future Brain Surgeons of Northern Ireland have been swarming en masse round the edges of their kingdoms chucking petrol bombs and assorted masonry at the pigs and miscellaneous opposites in neighbouring estates.

I don’t get the same high-octane adrenaline rush I used to when witnessing riots first hand or on the television.

I used to go to riot all the time back when I was a teenager. To begin with I always positioned myself in the centre of the rabble, not too close to the front to risk getting a plastic bullet in the eye or too far to the back to look yellow. I weren’t much of a thrower back in them days. Still amn’t. But the first time I picked up a bit of masonry to chuck at a pig was also my last. It were a quarter-brick with a brush of white paint up the side. It horned off three ways at the end, this brush of white paint. I never forgot it, the most memorable piece of masonry in my life. Well, I stretched my puny arm back, felt the drag in the slight weight of the quarter-brick and threw that thing for all it were worth. It gained more height than distance. For a bit I thought it were gonna fly backward. But it arched thinly when it reached its full height and fell at speed right on the noggin of former political struggler and official riot organiser: all round hardman Eddie Copeland. He fell in a crumpling way, like a sack of spuds cut at the bottom just right after all the spuds fall out. The collective knew instinctively who threw the brick. They rounded on me simultaneously, their fantastic instinct in mentally plotting the trajectory of flying masonry amalgamating in their hive mind dynamic. Then one shouted:

 - It were Danny Pongo! – And I ran. Like the wind.

 Up above the pigs in their chopper followed my progress over walls and through strangers’ gardens. I were chased by two rotweillers and beat with a broom by an old cunt with ‘sympathies’ for the rioters. Not once did the pigs intervene. Not once. I reckoned they were up there, those sky pigs, on the radio to their ground based colleagues giving them reports on how far I’d got. Probably up there taking bets on how far I’d get. Then, just as a stitch set in, I turned a corner and a hole in the street where a manhole cover’d been torn up provided my escape.

And there I was, Danny Pongo. Down in the sewers splashing in the shite and detritus. My sanctuary and my natural habitat.

     

So in the years that followed I completely never participated or was ever up there on the front lines with the rest of them. Never had to wrap my face in a heavy football scarf or sport a pair of shades to avoid identification. Just hanging back instead, an autonomous observer. Mostly I used to stand on shop roofs or shimmy up lampposts. I liked to view proceedings from a high vantage point.

They were far more inventive and resourceful in what they used to throw at the pigs back then. They had javelins, waterbombs filled with piss, used those lasers that can blind pilots and take down airplanes (haven’t seen em this year on the tele), hardened dog shit in a catapult I saw once, golf balls whacked off rooftops, fireworks fired outta pipes like ‘My First Bazooka’ (it were mainly 8 and below that were at this). One novel move they pulled this year was setting a bus on fire and driving it at the police lines. It careered straight into a police landrover injuring all five pigs inside.

I guess the word this year for them was: audacious.

The other day while out to stock up on supplies for over the 12^th I included in the shop a porno mag, as my internet’s being a cunt and I can’t watch my blue videos.

I got home and smelled the new magazine smell. It has been years since I’ve bought a blue book and smelled the ‘New Magazine Smell’, - something far removed from ‘The City Stink’ (talked about in last post).

Then I opened it and got my cock out and began playing with myself; stiffening the old ham javelin up in preparedness.   

I went at it for ages, just staring at this wet red gash…and it dawned on me, how much of a resemblance a cunt has to a stab wound.

So I put the magazine away and slapped my cock like you would a bad dog’s nose.

I thought to myself: I must be very depressed. Or maybe I wank too much over blue books. Maybe I am jaded with the blue books.

Then I shimmied my thoughts on to more productive things, like how to get the smicks to stop their rioting and get some peace in the Middle East!

And I thought if I’d the money and could commandeer some pig choppers I’d strap amps to the underside of those choppers and fly over those troublesome neighbourhoods blasting this at em: