Beat You RedWhiteBlue As The Flag Stick Your Head In A Bag Till You're Startin To Gag

So in regards the penultimate statement I made last night, in regards the ‘intel apparatus’ mentioned, I learn that unbeknownst to me Party Time has been having pow-wows with spidey wee fuckers in my place when I’ve gone out for the day.

These pow-wows were taken up with discussions planning the loose organization of some sort of network, whereby Party Time would import Crystal from London, and him and this wee band of vicious looking cunts I found sitting round in my living room yesterday afternoon would then distribute it around the place.

It has also transpired that Party Time has been using my phone to call his connections in London who would get stuff sorted that end.

I am in fucking full red alert tonight!!!!!!

Last night, speaking to mother on the phone about Coronation Street, we hear three distinct clicks, like a phone somewhere else in the house were being picked up, put down and picked up again. I just thank my lucky stars she attributed this to the telegraph lines being haunted by those souls who had passed while on the phone, but unfortunately for me I knew the terrible truth of it – the truth of it being it was much more likely to be: Intel/Police/Some other sophisticated gang (doubtful)

This trio collected from god-knows-where by Party Time are for sure the most dangerous looking and weird bunch I’ve ever encountered in this place.

They are Billiard, Slug, and Rhonaldo (not cos he’s Brazilian, but in reference to his prowess on the field of soccer).

Rhonaldo is the youngest at 16 and he sits looking at me his mouth opening and closing opening and closing like a sinister goldfish, he’s chewing his gum, then he blows a big bubble and pops it and Party Time takes the opportunity to break the ice and he tells me what’s happening.

Billiard like his name suggests his entirely in the shape of a Billiard ball. He is early 20’s by the looks of him and is very fat and he breathes heavily every time he shifts.

The last one Slug I have met before many moons ago (he was mentioned on this years ago). He is missing three fingers in total and he told me back then his molester uncle cut them off with pliers. I do remember though subsequently finding out the real story was he got em cut off in prison by bullies and was too ashamed to admit it.

So this was them. Party Time had not yet made up a name for his gang but I’m sure he will, knowing him. No doubt there’ll not be a wall in Belfast safe either with them adding their tag everywhere.

Last night I went out for a pint of milk and I spied a car with two dudes in civvies in it watching me. They’d this big long slender aerial sticking out the back, and the motor had new plates on it, too. I thought I was gonna drop dead from an anxiety fit.

Then last night I had a nightmare about that murderous looking wee cunt, Rhonaldo. His eyes stared into mine, but they’re like an empty TV screen and there’s nothing behind them but wires and cogs and this liquidy faecal matter driven by pistons and coursing through the valves of his mind.

I woke up in a state of panic and have remained that way for the rest of the day.

And I miss Boke the Cat, who, by letting me stroke him, was able to calm me down in times like this…

Here’s what Party Time’s trio would put you in mind of:

God's On Our Side, We Know We're Right, Come To The Light: Say Goodbye To All Your History

I have been all at 6’s and 7’s this last week busying me and Party Time into rustling up the coin so’s we can buy up some provisions, or, what I am calling them: ‘Our Doomsday Supplies’.

Having learnt I’d suffered a bereavement (Boke The Cat’s dead *RIP*) + a massive dive in serotonin levels due to the ingesting of 3 of the strongest e’s I’ve had in years (ergo subsequent comedown being equally powerful) + add into the mix: I learn my sister Micheesha has taken up again with that Stupid Peter, having kicked him out 2 or 3 months back for whipping the children with “electrical cut-offs” he nicked off the building site he works on.

Party Time told me a story the other day about how when he was destitute in London - (thought that’s not where he’s from, for those seeking to whittle down the suspects, so to speak) – and found himself living in some old derelict former funeral home, down and out in the strictest sense, his mental wellbeing decimated by some type of meth induced paranoid psychosis, so much so he’s into believing that the Triads are after him and were, at any minute, going to locate him and haul him off and stub out fag ends on his forehead, or whatever it is the Triads do when you cross them big style.

He filled me in a little on the circumstances that led up to this; dealing Crystal outta a house in (one of those well known run down areas of London) with this Sri Lankan (or Nepalese [can’t remember]) doll, who was his woman, and how something had ensued with them, money or whatever, and she basically either twisted his head or was for real in convincing him she *was* getting the Triads on him (even though I thought they were exclusively a Chinese gang).

So he’s walking the streets of London and finds himself in this derelict funeral home and then, in the telling of this story, he switches to talking about the one’s in the gang he was in, back at where he’s from, that they got this thing, can’t remember, but they got a name for it, its like a string round their neck, with a Clipper Lighter and a pipe strung through, so when they took a notion to have a toke their instruments weren’t more than an inch from their lips. But, the point of him telling me this, he says, is that these were the ones who were really caning it, all the time, and that sort of Crystal using it forms, like, bubbles on the brain, these chemical collections, that cannot be processed by the body, or broken down, so these highly corrosive chemical build-ups eat into the brain, destroying certain parts of it like the areas dealing with short-term memory and pleasure receptors. And that is why, he tells me, when he started hitting it hard due to his paranoia, his face became all collapsed in like an old man on chemo and his teeth are all gone to shit, cos whatever chemicals are used in the manufacture of Crystal, the left-behinds in the body eat you up. But these chemical build-ups don’t only collect in the brain or eat away at your innards; they can be expelled through the pores and sometimes come out like acne.

So Party Time’s there, in this derelict funeral home, where he also finds a coupla other squatters, these Lithuanians, and they got the place all wired up with a TV and microwave etc, proper wee bolthole. For Party Time, though, the Triad heebie-jeebies are rocking him real bad. His face has broken out with this ‘chemical acne’ after the heavy using, this build up of dermatological meth clusters under his skin. So in his desperation, to stave off ‘the fear’, he pops this shit into a square of tin foil and puts it in his pipe, like as a gauze, and smokes it…

…Ahhh!!!

But that ain’t even the half of it. Party Time’s maybe got us some attention from our own intel apparatus here in lovely NI, the Special Branch, but that’ll have to be for another time.

It’s only left for me to say that with this convergence of anxieties, 1 part circumstance of environment, 2 parts consequence, if I were a country I’d be on amber alert with the threat level sliding toward red. The walls are closing in on all fronts, with the micro mirroring the macro…it may all go to shit tomorrow for one and all, and who wants to be left like a spare dick at an orgy…the results are in, and the coin’ll be found to stock the cupboards, steel ourselves against the prevailing winds of discord, keep the rolling news on a loop…and maintain:



We Will All Bake Together When We Bake, There'll Be Nobody Present At The Wake

I took Party Time into the town today to walk about in the heat and show him the sites. For some reason (that’s to say what give rise to the reason was lost on me) I wanted to portray ‘BowlsFast’, as he says it, in a good light, - have her make the best out of what she’s got: and what better way to rouge up the pallid cheeks of the never-pretty dirty old hoor but with a bit of warm sun.

Party Time cut a dash walking along in his ¾ lengths, a straw hat and a cigar. He wore a Speedo vest under a Magnum PI Jungle Bird, (hanging open); a fucking site. The bakes the natives pulled at the sight of him, that just-took-a-whiff-of-shite expression on their faces, were, I reckoned with a smile, the one year-round constant here – to wit: in response to any given stimuli, no matter what, the collective expression of the natives of BowlsFast is one of agitation that is perpetually on the verge of sliding into full blown slabber flecked rage.

We made our way through the town up to Botanic Park. On the way we stopped at The Empire for a sit-down break and we both had a pint of Becks. We sat up in the mezzanine bit and Party Time made a show of looking down at this pair, all of 17, round hips packed in starched white hotpants swinging like a mesmerist’s pocket watch as they went past to the bogs. The rest that pass below he puckers up all hammy vaudevillian, even at the likes of them that take any break in the weather as an excuse to get their flaps out: lace-up-back tops, backpack-back fat bulging, look like piano wire passed through butter, and false lashes with sparkles in em at the end.

I shuffle through the load of tribute band flyers they’ve got stacked about the lunch menu like scaffolding round a church steeple and serendipitously come across a flyer of some punk-anarchist collective stating their aims and intentions, but whose goals I couldn’t really fathom even after reading the thing front and back two times. But the serendipity of the discovery was due to this quote from Anthony Trollope as a preface to their ‘Mission Statement’, almost identically resembling the thoughts I were having walking through the place today:

“Belfast is a filthy, disagreeable, unwholesome, uninteresting town, with bad water and worse inhabitants and nothing on earth to recommend it…”

You'll See: That Someone Who Really Cares Is Me

This morning I went round to the local newsagents and bought an Easter Egg for my brekkie. It was one of those teensy child’s sized ones, no bigger than one of Boke the Cat’s shites, so I was a little shocked and surprised to discover these newsagent gangsters were charging £2.99 for it.
- Eat an ovary, ya cunt, - I went and walked out.

My plan had been to break the egg up in a breakfast bowl, marinade with Rice Krispies, add milk, and put in the microwave for 30 seconds. £2.99 put the kibosh on that one.

So I put some of Boke the Cat’s Rabbit & Gravy Wiskas in a sandwich and put it in the toastie maker. It weren’t too bad, but I felt a little guilty after realising I’d ate for my brekkie what were meant to be for Boke’s dinner, and now there were no more Rabbit & Gravy Wiskas left…

So later on that afternoon me and Party Time took a bus out to one of the big forests on the outer reaches of the ‘General Belfast Area’ to go hunting for wildlife. Party Time carried his pellet gun in a sportsbag. It happened that I got a big dose of the heebie-jeebies, picturing a squad of pigs out doing they’re thing and seeing us with that rifle of his. I thought, my brain chattering like teeth in the cold - In light of recent blowings-up by some Provo tribute band I know the pigs’ will have their instincts honed and their safeties off…They see a brute like Party Time running round with a rifle they’re gonna shoot us down dead.

When we got far enough into the forest, further than most go anyway, Party Time took the rifle from his sportsbag, theatrically buffed the barrel with a cloth and checked the sights. Due to my pig-paranoia I told him I’d hang back about 10 foot or so to act as a spotter, but really so's to have space and time to duck or leg-it if a jittery pig were lurking and bullets started to fly.

It turned out to be a productive day. Party Time bagged two squirrels and got a badger right through the brain. The badger we would have in a stew and the squirrels we would feed to Boke the Cat. At one point Party Time had a lovely big old cuckoo lined up in his sights and an odd thing happened. The cuckoo started to sing, and Party Time lowered the rifle, put it back in his sportsbag and said:

- Thot ees enuf killan far taday. It was like that part in the Deer Hunter, when De Niro can’t shoot the deer as his ordeal in ‘Nam has made him a better person. Or something.

We walked though the rain for the rest of the way back, and as Party Time was on a killing high I decided to ask after the whereabouts of Kimba.
- What’d you do with her? – I asked.

- Ah hove sat har frah, Danna. Sha nah yers nah langa! Ah’ve san sam harra shaws an mah day Danna. Thang’s ah wall nat dwoll an. Bat Danna, wath thah evol ah’ve san ah nid ah lattle luvin lite tah shan thru, yah know? – The rain ran off his soft thin hair like a gentle stream moves over reeds. – So ah parfarmed ahn oct aff lav ahn yer beeholf, cas’, cos wah bath nid sam gadnass pat back an are speerts, Danna! Ah laughed har weeth than Halacast Spide. He as thah wan shah whand nah, Danna! –

The rain ran down his Meth pocked and concave face, but it were tears more that ran down mine…

The Strange Wonders That Lurked In This World

Last night found me sitting at my grotty kitchen table buttering a piece when here I feel an almighty juddering spasm mid-spine and I fall sideways off the chair and onto the floor just like a big bag of spuds.

I lay there, consumed by agony, my frame jerking like a dog’s hind quarters when it’s taking a squirty shite. Boke the Cat wandered over and stood regarding me this way and that before doing an about turn and pointing his round little shrivelled up anus at me. He stayed like this for such a long time, long enough for me to imagine to myself that it (Boke’s anus) might bear some resemblance to the nostril of Ashanti Elliot-Smith that little girl who’s, like, 8 year old in human years but has the body of an 86 year old - all due to some freak occurrence in Time/Space the very moment she came out her ma’s box, something like a bleeding overlap between dimensions the very moment she appeared, causing her cells to go into super-fastforward like you get on all the new-fangled digital cassette machines, probably.

That girl is a fascination to me though. The things she's got is called Progeria Syndrome. The frame and build of a child, but the withered-ness and calluses of an oul’ cunt. I would like to hear what a nonce would make of that…

Which slaloms me neatly onto the issue of sexual deviancy. In order to try and cheer him up after his ordeal of the other day I made an effort to share with Party Time my penchant for the sexually surreal and disturbing.

After some consideration I decided that what would best give him an insight into the strange wonders that lurked in this world of mine were these two classics below:

Find more videos like this on ThisIs50.com

Two Girls One Cup was Top Of The Pops for Party Time. He flapped about like a fish outta water laughing and gagging in insanely sharp snapping alternations while I sat rubbing myself all the while. It’s a favourite of mine, too.

Divine in Pink Flamingos with the dog’s dirt he chundered at. I did similar on first viewing as well. I was 12 and a half when I first saw Pink Flamingos, directed by genius John Waters. I must’ve watched it 1000 times after that. I loved that scene the most. I burnt the tape out stopping and rewinding, stopping and rewinding going back to the point she puts it in her mouth. I started getting into finding out more about the act of eating shit, any shit, human, animal, whatever. When I discovered Salvador Dali ate his own shit I thought, ‘Cool bananas! Dali’s way cool! Should I start eating my own shit too? Will this make me a better painter, seeing I’ve now almost totally given up on the music career (having taped myself doing a woeful improvisational jazz album in the style of ‘Kind Of Blue’ by Miles Davis on my school recorder)’ – but the furthest I went was cleaning my arse with my bare hand one morning before school and boking into Mother’s bidet and all over my nice good shoes.

So while I reminisced on this it all-of-a-sudden dawned on me that Party Time hadn’t told me what he’d done with Kimba. So I turn to ask him, but he’s conked out – but so I let him be for the meantime.
 

Clutches Of Sad Remains

Some time late this afternoon Party Time comes in fuckin cock-of-the-walk, half-cut, with Boke the Cat under one arm and the hand of the other stuffed deep in the pocket of his big ugly green duffel coat. In the pocket of his duffel coat is a Jiffy Bag with part of his nostril in it.

 - Ah wont inta ah bor Danna Panga… - he said haltingly welling up while I started to clandestine-like examine the extent of the bit that’d been bit outta his neb. ..-Wat as tha wast thang yo con axe far an ah bor an BowlsFast? Wha? – implored Party Time.

- Hmm, - I went…-Hmm…I suppose, regardless of where you were, be it the Hideout on The Pass or the Northern Whig, I guess the worst thing you could ask for in a bar in Belfast would be…”boy, four year old, with a arsehole Wide Open, this wide…”- I went, stretching my arms out at either side to indicate the massive diameter (or for those assuming from afar, approximating the length of a sperm whale’s cock).

The fool Party Time took a dander down The Pass to The Hideout after all it turns out having already travailed the bars of Belfast one end till the other going from one scummy hole till the next, the bars getting scummier as he went as he endeavoured to evaluate the scumminess of each place in order to establish its suitability for scoring Crystal.

So while he laughed at my ‘four year old boy’ suggestion in increasingly more-powerful bursts of fits-and-starts, (his big bodily granite edifice spasming like a woman experiencing a full-body orgasm), his overall spirit all of a sudden administered a psychic reboot and just like that he curled up like paper held near a flame, his whole person/a did, and he rolled up in the corner of my lovely big faux-leather sofa, the noise of his joints cracking sounding like the crackling of fresh autumn leaves being diligently trod on.

 - Ah bat nah, Danna Panga! Nah! Tha wast ting yah con axe fah in a bor an BowlsFast as fochan Crastal, cas’! – Meaning cousin.

Turned out The Hideout on The Pass were the end of the line as far as City Centre saloon scumminess went. So Party Time went in there like Bronson in Once Upon A Time In The West and starts givin-it-large: Ah Ahm An Mossad! Ah Ahm 33ard Dograh Frahmaison – Tanth Gene-ar-asian AlliminNazi! ---

He’s looking Crystal.

Been all over looking.

Wiggin’ Out!

And finally he wanders into this retrospective alternate dimension, this Quantum Leap anachronism, and asks them if they got some Crystal going, ‘after hours’ so to speak.

When he’s telling me the next part I’ve to join the thing together between his big Party Time bawls:

 - Sah thah bor kab tall me tah waits tall hah moke a fan call. Hah moke thah call ahn hah talls mah hah con sart mah at. Ah wall ladder thah cam an…Far aff tham. Thah jamp mah ahn cack mah ramp had! Cack at had Danna Panga. Cack et ap at mah ease!!!

Party Time quietened for a while and stared up off into space. Indeterminate seconds passed before a spontaneous grand mal dissociative conditioning was triggered, then, savant-like, he launched into the rest of the tale:

 - Thah thags tak mah at thah bak an bat mah abat. Thah hat mah bod, Danna. Thah strap mah naked ahn staff a snah-kah cue ap mah arsh! Ahn wan thah dah thot thah damp mah an a ban – heed fast! –

So I ream through an hour or so of consoling overtures, ensuring him the cunts’ll be done, and then I tell him, in no uncertain terms, that I really don’t think he’s got it in him for a life on the wrong side of the law. The truth of it is he ain’t hard enough, and he ain’t got the street moxie neither.

But, as always, Danny Pongo got a plan…and at least some of what Party Time conceived of I can alchemise………………………………..