Have Some Courtesy, Have Some Sympathy, And Some Taste

Today found me standing on the corner of Donegal Sq South and Bedford Street looking up into the air. I stood there, perched on the edge of the footpath, assuming a static stubbornness to the tut-tut's of townie ignoramuses rushing by me and against me like a painiced stream round a smooth rock. Up above, in the sky, a plane spewed heavy metals and other assorted poisons upon us all in the form of chemtrails. This plane, one of a fleet of deathbringers sponsored by our Gifted and Malevolent Controllers, I could see through my Batman Telescope (which I carry with me everywhere now). It was painted with much the same material, the blacky silver, the same as the helicopter, and like it, was unmarked.

I cursed my luck at not having some kinda scientifical gidgerie-ma-do that might take a reading of what the air around us is made up with (as these type of machines do exist), but I didn't, so I turned abruptly, body popping round a fattie and a sharp edged skinnie (men) and went off to buy a cheap drink somewhere, the location of which I would determine using the Dice Man theory, and all with the help of my new fangled wooden dice that I found in a skip on my dander into town.

After tossing the thing about inside my pocket 3 consecutive times and finding it came up 6 each go, I pulled it out and saw it said 6 on every face. I was mightily disappointed by this and cursed the fate that brought me a 6 sided dice with 6 on every side. So I decided to just walk along and listen out for someone saying the name of a bar. This bar I would go to. Didn't take long. 

And I went to Lavery's.

Outside I sat with my gin and tonic and rolled a fly wee one-skinner rocket (or SCUD more correctly, in a proportional sense) and sat sipping and puffing, little bits at a time to stretch it out, when a man in a suit sits by me.

This man's name was Tandy.

Tandy's drunk. He's just after quitting his job, and was on his way round to the estate agents to put his house on the market before he decided to call in for a drink to calm his nerves.

He begins to talk to me:

- I came home last week. This day last week... - he says. He has a lovely drinkers' voice, words rolled out like squidgy black hash pronounced in gravelly level inflections, though his diction's no the worse off for it, - ...So I come home last week, and there's my wife on the stairs getting fucked by the milkman.
- That's terrible, - say I.
- Worse than that. The milkman's also my brother.
- Ahh! That's a sick arrangement, there!
- Too right, mate. Too right. Why, me and Sylvia, we'd holiday, Italy, Venice, Vegas. Ha! Every time we'd book a room no higher than the 2^nd floor. Sylvia reckoned one or the both of us might go over the balcony and break our necks if we were any higher up. We liked to drink, us. Holidays the most. Glug, glug glug. Fuck, when we went to Turkey we didn't leave the hotel once for all the screwing and drinking we did...

Tandy was a very handsome man of around 50. His hair gone white prematurely, white as the freshest snow, it was long and kept back with a little butterfly clip, which looked like it were encrusted with shiny, precious things. His face was triangular, and tapered off at his extremely pointed chin that was disguised beautifully by a miniature goatee of gnarly white hair, which, as well as disguising the pointy chin, paradoxically complemented his look exquisitely. His drinkers face was very red, and this, with his white hair, give the impression it'd been snowing on Mars. But more, much more than that, he resembled The Devil.

So I decided to tread carefully as I could but of course could not suppress the most pertinent character flaws...

- It's terrible. A terrible thing to be cheated on. I know how it feels, Tandy. Have been there myself. Recently. But with your brother...? God Save Ireland! You know what that is, on your brother, anyway? Incest Bi-proxy. I mean, he's shoved his dick where his brother's been putting it every other night for the past how many years. The dirty, dirty bastard. He should've gayed you up, his own brother, and been done with it...

On instantly replaying my previous words I was mentally kicking myself when it slapped me square in the face that what I'd said altogether made an already bad and dirty thing now a terrible and filthy thing. The Devil Tandy, throughout, nodded contemplatively, then sighed. I braced myself for his verdict:

- You're right, Daniel. But more than that you have made me see that in this they are much worse than I. Saying that I already knew it. But something about the empathy and understanding of a stranger, a stranger who has experienced similar, somehow is giving me a perspective from a place other than the place I've been lately, which is feeling the victim.
- Glad I could be of service.
- I'm still going to put my house on the market. Gonna take what I make of that and my retirement and fuck off out of this terrible country.
- More power to ye, Tandy. Wish I could do the same.
- You never know, Daniel. You soon might. I owe you a favour now.

He swung his mac on , round the shoulders, hem flying, and headed toward the big gate leading into the entry. Before he went he turned and winked, and I thought again about his resemblance to The Devil. Thought back too to my six sided dice, 6 on every side, and how I'd pulled it thrice, - always: .6, 6, 6...

And so The Devil, he owed me a favour.

He's Dead, But He Can't Be Buried

This evening the street is deserted. The footpaths are empty and the swoosh of cars from the nearby overpass, a constant thread of undersound, - always - this evening has emigrated and silence reins.

The footie is on the tele. I look out my ironing room window at the line of houses across the street, studying the cookie-cut tapestries behind every front window, one identical to the next – and that tapestry-within-a-tapestry the television set, those too all the same, assuming Orwell's telescreen ubiquity this street of mine, those identical flatscreen televisions, all broadcasting the one symphony of colour and sound and light the same, run from one house to the next like bedazzling hypnotic beads on a fibreoptic string. I almost think I can sense the air humming...and come the 80^th minute, if the prospect of victory for Utd fans seems certain, the collective roar they'll emit will sound like a superwave rising like a giant's gloved hand over the entire land and crashing down upon us all.

Earlier this afternoon I went out and took a walk around to clear my head. I sat on the old peoples' favourite bench nearby and watched a parade of soldiers go by, back from somewhere, and having done something, that's set their faces askew.

I reflected with great sadness on the fact Gil Scott-heron's dead at 62. Dunno what happened to him, other than when he died he was in the hospital. These soldiers walking past, eyes forever more grimly fluctuating between deadly anticipation and combat-stricken sadness, they put me in mind of this song

which I put up here, in memory of Gil and as a requiem to the minds of these ones that came past me this afternoon.

Feel Sick And Dirty, More Dead Than Alive

Today I got in a wild paranoid funk that ended up wasting the greater part of my afternoon. So paranoid was I that I missed a crucial episode of Neighbours.

What triggered it was the black helicopter that sat hovering directly above my house for two and a half hours.

I had this morning, as I have been doing every morning this past fortnight, risen when my TV switched itself on to coincide with the start of The Jeremy Kyle Show. After it was over I turned the tele off for some quiet time before This Morning started. It was then I heard it, the distant but nevertheless distinctive sound of a hovering helicopter, a hum like that of a mechanical mosquito.

I went out into the back garden and looked up at it. There it hung, glinting a little in the late morning sun. I went back inside and took from my cutlery drawer my novelty Batman Telescope that I got free of the cover of Tiger Beat many moons ago.

This Batman Telescope, being free thus shite, did not reveal much, except to say there were no markings on the thing, and it were a slightly dull blacky silver. I found this very perturbing.

I went back inside shaking my head and devising a plan, a plan that did not take much time in piecing itself together inside my mind. I would try to get a rise out of the sky creeps by getting the big iron pipe Party Time kept under his pillow and pointing it at them like it were a rifle (they probably wouldn't've been able to tell from up there), see if they fucked off or what.

I went upstairs and got it and brought it outside and stood there with it pointed in the air for a good five minutes till my arms got sore. The helicopter did not move, but the light of the day glinted again and again of its side, having a semi hypnotic effect on me.

Then some clouds passed along by it and I couldn't tell if it were gliding off or the clouds floating by were just giving it the illusion it were. But when the clouds passed fully the helicopter took off at great speed and disappeared over Black's Mountain, outta site.

All day I had dark surmisings go through my head, a jittery nauseating fear course through my being, a feeling like my whole body were experiencing butterflies. I did a little research on the net about Black Helicopters and drew the conclusion 'they' were trying out a sound weapon on me to test its effectiveness.

I nearly cried when it got near dinner time and still I could think of nothing else. It felt as if my head mechanisms had been thrown into flux and were unspooling all over the insides of my skull like an old fashioned playback machine going haywire and sending its magnetic cassette tape out in great spastics of twisting, twisting confusion.

It got so I'd to call someone up and get a bag a weed to try and calm the seas of my psyche, but I am still waiting for the bastard who said he'd be here at half 8, but there's been no sign yet...

For One More Forgotten Hero, And A World That Doesn't Care

That night I had two profound thoughts occur to me, and all during Party Time's miasmic meanderings.

The first manifested itself when my attention began flaking, somewhere halfway through the crux of his narrative, and I took a turn down some ecclesiastical near-well-trodden-path and I realised something: That for independent businesses The Troubles were a boon, which is to say, a retail market empty as a nun's cunt was a veritable goldmine for the independent business owner...for there were no multinationals or American franchises wanting to invest over here, worrying employees under their watch were going to get blown to bits...ergo the half-savvy Sammy-Sixpacks, with their eccentrically titled corner shops, had it made!

The second thought, just in the present, I can't seem to recall...but nevertheless, I guess the rest of what happened when Party Time came back is what's really, I mean ostensible as a cancerous membrane, is what really, honest-to-God is on my mind...:

So I got him up into my place and away from that excitable neighbour and got him hunkered down into the lovely deep comfy recesses of my beautiful sofa.

- So tell me the rest, Party Time, - I went.

He was unresponsive as a disassociating child sex abuse victim. His eyes rolled in his head. I sensed there wasn't a threat to his here-and-now wellbeing, or mine, so I sat looking at him for the longest time and his skull took on a likeness of a basic fruit machine, his eyes rolling on and on forever and ever round and round, a formula of meanings, expectations...and possibilities.

He was in the grip of some sort of uber-amphetamine high...and truly there was nothing left to tell of his story between his leaving London and his getting back here, except to say he couldn't remember how he arrived back at mine.

An indeterminate time later he started wigging out. He started to scratch his face violently like that boy in Poltergeist, that Parapsychologist when he's at the bathroom mirror, - and - he also wet hisself.

I showed him the Two Girls One Cup video again and he stilled for a while and adopted this rudimentary dog-like expectant poise, like you're just a second away from throwing the stick.

I went through One Man One Jar, One Man One Horse, Three Men One Hammer...on and on the parade of sick audiovisuals went, and Party Time laughed and laughed like a maniac, laughed and laughed right up till he shot up off his perch, flung hisself halfway across the room and gagged on two sandpapery dry-heaves then boked this heinous green slime all over my lovely big shag-pile rug.

I reacted with massive aural horror and tried to articulate, albeit abstractly, my mortification through the eclectic verbal medium, but all I could muster was this hammy stage-hack job trying to approximate a seizure whilst emitting the noise of a deaf mute infant being dry arsed to bum bleed, - and so was all: - Right! We're goin out for a spin to get yer head cleared!

I drove around. The Newtownards Rd, Albertbridge Rd, up through Ballyhack and down through Stormount. I showed Party Time the building within which the Vaudeville Power lies.

When it seemed he'd calmed down I asked him if he were hungry.

- Ah ahm fackin foam-ished.
- Right then. Let's hit Micky D's!

We detoured roundways to the McDonald's that's across the way from the Dundonald hospital. I always liked this McDonald's the most for its apparent clean appearance. Though, to use an analogy, who knows what sinister trivia lurks in the subtext of the common quiz show standard.

I got Party Time a Big Mac and the cunt wolfed it in two gulps. As soon as the last of it was down his gullet he started going spasmodic on it again and took my butterfly knife out the glove compartment and started acting the Rambo with it.

- Take it easy, Party Time, - I went all softly-softly, bereavement councilor like. - You gotta just relax! - I went.
- Roll-axe?! Ha con ah Roll-axe? Wan fockin Chan-arse Sockrat Pal-ease as ova thah?

I squinted in the direction Party Time were pointing. This tragic looking, prematurely aged, McDonald's middle manager sadsack sort dawdled along in his pretzel frame with all the spring-in-his-step of a new arrival at Auschwitz.

- At as ham! - Declared Party Time like Lawrence of Arabia.

Then Party Time exited the vehicle, butterfly knife in hand, and went running full pelt toward the McDonald's till jockey all in mealymouthed loud babel and threatening bloody death.

In me some perverse humanitarian altruism had me act. I took myself from behind the wheel and chased after the Aryan Poster Boy Party Time, a great facial edifice of concentration writ large as I endevoured with all I had in me to catch up with the maniac. And, just before it was too late, I did...

...Party Time had got within a foot of the McDonald's man before I sweeped him from behind, catching his ankles and taking him down. His big diving board chin hit the ground first, followed not a great deal of time later by the majority of his face, which popped like a bad tamatae covering the immediate surrounding tarmac with his own blood and Crystal acne.

Yet this did not seem to faze him in the slightest, and actually the emotional occurrence that registered on his simian face was one like what 'the squares' faces' go like when a bit of couscous has gone down the wrong way.

He squirmed impatiently, bawling like a colic baby, so's I'd to pound him like there were no tomorrow, till he were knocked out cold, while the McDonald's binman star-jumped sideways; crablike in oldman trots till he were at a safe distance and could relax.

I hauled Party Time over to my motor and got him in the back seat. His nose came apart in three ways and I bust his top lip open at multiple points.

Back at home I took him outta the motor by the ankles and pulled him like a big sack of shite up my drive. Mrs Mulberry and one of her old doll bridge pals watched me and I'm sure I heard the pal go: “Fuck me, he's kilt'm!!!”

So I dug out a set of Kimba's sex handcuffs and handcuffed the big knocked out cunt to the radiator in my living room, where he stayed, sleeping for three and a half days, till he woke up. After which I threw him out.

Cunt's probably a homeless bum now... 

 

What You Want For Nothin'? A Rubber Biscuit?

Another happening occurring in the last fortnight was that Party Time done a bunk for 4 days.

It all started on a Saturday afternoon. I was at home watching a Coronation Street omnibus, and Party Time turns to me and says...

          -  Ah ahm gan to thah shaps.

          - Right, - I went.

And he just didn't come back.

I hadn't noticed until the 4 hour Coronation Street marathon was over. I sat through the credits; right to the end. Someone had told me there's a very blatant subliminal appears somewhere after the 15 second mark. I got onto the floor and onto my belly and shimmied my way over till I was right up under my old shitey set and staring close at the screen.

When I thought I saw it I went to Party Time, - There did you see it? - And when I turned to look to get his reaction, he wasn't there.

I rang him a few times on his mobile as the night went on, but come the next day I coulda give a shit what'd happened to him.

By the fourth day I did begin to get worried. Not so much for his sake as much as for mine. If he turned up dead the police would get involved. For the same reasons I hadn't called them yet to report him missing I now hoped beyond hope he wasn't dead. I crossed both my fingers and put one of those prayers to St Jude in the Belfast Telegraph's classified, St Jude being the saint of lost causes.

Then, the fifth day he came home. I thanked St Jude by saying a prayer, then ruined it at the end by praying for the death of my enemies and loadsa dosh.

I arrived home sometime mid-afternoon having been out delivering a thing for a new pal. I notice the distinctive multicoloured tennis shoes of Party Time sticking out from under my neighbour's car.

  - What you doin under there, Party Time? I asked

  -  Ah ahm axe-spectan far a car bamb. Wah mast gat avah tah Hammasmyth quack fast tah pack app mar praddack!                                               

  -  But, Party Time, - I insisted, - You're back in shitey old Belfast again...you're not in London no more!

At this he pulled himself out from under the neighbour's car. He was all sweaty and I got the impression he'd sprinted all the way from the International Airport, which is a good 4.5 miles, anyway. He got up and dusted himself off. Then a neighbour appeared.

  -  Here! - His big red face squealed. - What you at under my car? You planting a bomb under there, yah big cunt?        
  -  Nahhhh...- drawled Party Time, his eyes rolling in his head.
  -  What's'at? - Went the neighbour cupping his hand under his wee, underdeveloped burns' victim lug, - I don't fuckin speak ape, cunt...Nae what ye at?
  -  Don't worry, - went I, stepping in with the condescension of an archbishop, - he is my cousin, and he  has learning difficulties. Shame on you!

At this the fat bald headed little man hung his head and shuffled his fat arse off in the direction of his neat little house.

I took Party Time inside and sat him down on the couch, and he told me his story.

He had gone round to the shops, as he had said, with the intention of buying a box of smokes and coming straight back home again. At the shops he met this dear old woman, who was buying Miracle Grow for her garden. Party Time convinced her he'd do her garden for 80 quid, and after some arm twisting she agreed.

So he spends the afternoon doing that. The old duck pays him, and he is on his way. Only he is not coming home to me, he is heading to the airport and he is getting the first plane to London.

When in London he meets all his old connections and he spends 3 and a half days smoking Crystal and snaking Filipinos. Before he leaves he has enough wherewithal still though to purchase some reasonable quantity of Crystal to bring back home with him. He is planning to test the market here for it, to put some out there and see what demand is like.

But once again his grand plans are scuppered by a heavy paranoid turn and once again it is the Chinese, he believes, are after him again...only this time not the Triads but the Chinese Secret Police. They are waiting for him to board the flight, he thinks. They are going to lift him then, no doubt.

So he goes into the nearest toilets, locks the cubicle door behind him and shoots what he can up his arm and flushes the rest.

On the plane he's fine. It's when he touched down in Belfast he came up on it. He stepped out onto the concourse, the sun in his face, and felt the euphoria whirlpool in his belly. And after that he can't remember a fucking thing.

   

All Fucked Up, And We're All In It Together

This last couple of weeks I all but dispensed with conventional time-telling ('all but' meaning apart from those times I left the house and couldn't help seeing the big public clock near to where I live). Instead, as a means of telling the time while indoors, I relied solely upon the order my favourite programmes appeared on the television and planned my day and mealtimes around these.

For e.g:

9:45am – 10:30am – The Jeremy Kyle Show

The Jeremy Kyle Show served as my wake-up call in the morning. Party Time, with his supposed bomb making skills, was able to wire the TV set up so that it would come on at a designated time, just like an alarm clock. I would woke up every morning to that sponsor's great theme tune:

'All fucked up/ /'

We're all in it together/

Bang-Bang Smack shoots up my vein/

This woman walks along the edge of a swimming pool pregnant with an enormous bingo ball, big as Moby Dick's eyeball, holding her belly and swooning. In the pool loads of other mothers' Bingo Ball Children are bobbing away contentedly. Said expectant mother suddenly stops, lets out a yell, then gives birth to her own Bingo Ball Child right into the swimming pool. Amazingly there is no placenta. Then the new mother chucks herself in on top of them, probably killing a few, including her own.

What I think this is communicating to the TV Buffoon's subconscious, the underlying symbolism fashioned in shrinks' labs to latch onto the tic-tac-toe of their innerminds, is: 

'All you single mothers at home, just dropped one, another already in the oven. So far gone it's starting to brown round the edges. You got better turnover than a Leeds' McDonald's at lunchtime getting them out there...Yes all you single mothers, what do your children represent to you? Bingo Balls, and you're all hoping your one's the 'Full House' or one with 3 bedrooms and central heating anyway...So You! Yes You! Kill yourselves, and take some of your Bingo Ball Children with you!'

It so happened the other morning that while having a good old laugh at the expense of Jeremy's menagerie of half-mad creatures, I get a call on the telephone from Bosco:

- Hello, you cunt, - I say, - what do you want?
- That's not a very nice way to greet a pal after all this time, Danny?! - he went with inflections.
- You still selling your base, Bosco?
Oh yes, but that's not why I'm calling, you see I read your fuckin' wee girl diary Danny, only fuckin' emo's and trendy's, and fuckin' mongo's who're told to cos they've special needs and it helps them get over it, keep fuckin' diary's, Danny!
- So what, Bosco? What you getting your gusset in a twist over?
- Well, seeing your boasting all the while about your big cock, why'nt you put it up for the world to see? Give us all a big laugh. Cos I've seen your cock, Danny, and it ain't all that!
- You fuckin' wanna bet Bosco! I'll post it online and it'll go viral faster than fuckin' diarrhea through a UN refugee camp!
- Fuck me! Think I hit a nerve...hawrhawrhawr!!! - Then Bosco's laughter petered out and was replaced by this whimpering, like a kicked dog, and I asked him what was the mater...
- It's one of those adverts, Danny. The one about the starving in Africa...and you talking about getting the skids in a refugee camp and making jokes...you fucking bastard!
- That's what you call synchronicity! What channel's it on. I Love those adverts.
- Channel 4. Cunt!

I watched the ad for a bit, and while ruminating on the synchronicitous circumstances, a feeling swooped over the landscape of my soul...and I had a brainwave which I think might one day solve All African Hunger – something that not even a million Live Aids could achieve: Why don't they eat the flies! There's fucking loads of em!

I relayed my divine revelation to Bosco.. 

- So what I propose is you gas the villages with something that will knock out the flies but will be harmless to the starving villagers' malnourished and depleted immunity systems. When all the flies are knocked out you get all those child-pimping UN soldiers in there to shovel them up and put them into cauldrons. Then, and it doesn't take a Jamie Oliver to solve this one: You boil all the flies up in the cauldron, to kill whatever diseases they may be carrying, add some, I don't know, palm leaves or whatever to garnish, and Bob's Your Uncle...Fanny's Your Aunt...!

- You're a sick cunt, Danny...get that cock of yours online...give the world a laugh you pathetic bastard!!!

Beat Me Outta Me

After a night of cheap vodka and bad coke I woke up this morning with a headache so heavy, deep and painful that it made my eyes water. Luckily I had to counterbalance this a big stiff hangover horn hard-on, and as soon as I was fully awake I stared stroking it long, slow and smoothly, long, slow and smoothly – so smooth from spitting onto the palm of my wanking hand, as lazy lube.

Afterward, having conjured this girl I were bucking from back when I went to tech, I laughed to myself when I remembered how after the first time I sliced her she wanked me back to hardness and she goes, gripping it like a joystick: Danny Pongo, its so beautiful, and big – you go right up in me, so deep and far I can nearly feel it in my stomach…it’s soooo biggg! --- And I waited a while, let the comic timing stretch for pace, and say: We’re gonna need a bigger boat ---

I rub me semen into my skin, as it’s supposed to be good for it, then get my little Tinkerbell vanity mirror out and put some in my hair and style it how I like. Short of gel, there’s nothing holds like semen.

I go out for some Rice Krispies and in the grocery store nearly have a cry when I go to the cat food aisle for Boke the Cat. But after paying the girl I distract myself from sad thoughts of mourning by having a lightbulb moment concerning my personal hygene and ideas of self preservation.

Now, my thinking on this matter followed this course: I have a lovely, spunky wank this morning…it goes all over me, I rub it all into my skin and put it in my hair, and I leave the house without washing my hands…I pay the girl in the grocery store for my shit using cash, and inevitably our hands might touch (which they did) and now she’s gonna have traces of my semen on her. The problem is then if she’s say raped or murdered by an opportunistic crazy, the pigs are gonna examine her corpse afterward and find my seed on her. The chances of this happening are not completely remote, either her being murdered or me being caught. She has a few stalkers alright. Such a sweet fresh wee thing, still in school, but legal for sure…for after all, as Party Time observed: Old enuf tah sail Thah San, Old enuf far wan app Thah Bam!

So, yeah. Lesson being wash your semen off your hands before you leave the house. Pigs will work harder to pin it on you than to find the culprit. Less work that way. But sometimes they go all out to find a patsy, cos they gotta, cos who really did it can’t be done – usually due to the perp’s standing or for other esoteric reasons.

When I got home I found Rhonaldo in the kitchen doing the dishes. He was in nothing but a pair of tight little day-glo green cotton boxers. I sat there and put one leg over the other and watched his full round arse point and jut and tense while he squelched away in all the soapy suds with all the plates and cutlery clanging.

And I pulled out another one, a sneaky one this time, imagining that soft young arse of his rise up before me, full and round and plentiful as a rising sun. Then I imagined that sexy wee bit from the grocery store joining us as well and us all having a sexy, sweaty dirty threesome.

And I proceeded to beat me outta me!

I Say, Wills Dont You Ever Crave To Appear In The Daily Mail Dressed In Your Mothers Bridal Veil?

Yesterday for the Royal Wedding Party Time had his cohorts round to talk about his latest wheeze, which is, like I said in the previous post, the importation and distribution of Crystal.

The only thing I have said on the issue is that instead of going to the trouble of importing it why not just make it up here. Fuck, the internet says it’s a piece of piss. Chemicals, some tubing, some other chemicals….but no….Party Time says the risks are too great, both in ‘law’ risky, and in ‘could-kill-yourself’ risky, as it is a dangerous game making Crystal. Very Explosive.
- Ah hove san many a few palls keelt in a math-lob act-splosion! – Went Party Time, lamentingly.

I still think importing it is most risky of all, but what do I know. Furthest up the rung on that particular ladder I’ve ever got is selling shit on in bars, grams and ounces, depending on the product.

After they’re done having their ‘sit-down’, as Party Time likes to call it Mafioso-like, we all sit down to watch the Royal Wedding. Luckily we tuned in at just the right time, just as the bony pony Kate emerged from her lovely posh hotel in her nice frock.

She is a bony pony all right.

Some hours later I read this claim by a commenter on Anna Grace’s blog called Valerie and thought back to her bony pony face.

“PS what did you think of the Royal Wedding?

GLUED to that screen, I was! Now I don't know about Wills but you want to watch that Kate. Someone told me the other day she was a notorious prostitute in Tottenham North London and a real one for the crack pipe!”

And I thought, reading this and casting my mind back not an hour or more: I can see that.

Some other thoughts I had regarding the Royal Wedding go thusly:

"as for that royal pair it was discreetly mentioned in the papers over here, they're cousins, distant cousins. man, i got thrown outta a bookies yesterday for asking if they did odds on terrorists attacking the whole thing, and if htey give out different odds on different organizations. but i hope they fucking do, and all hte fawning dickheads they got on the sky news tonight as well, blow em all to kingdom come! she's a sleeket bitch who has been i think placed under some sort of mk ultra like programming - and he is as useful as a paper shower curtain. he is dumb as dirt, and while he was v.sweet sixteen, handsome ways, he has now lost all his hair and his head is in the shape of a peanut. she, though, she's lovely. but now v.skinny. i thought once that if she appears on the money soon as queen it means you can have a wank over your money, yeah, vpretty...saying that by the time she's queen she be old and withered and have a resemblance to an old man's finger."

"god in heaven! I hate em both!!!


i wonder if he has forced her to let him up in the VIP entrance? i bet he has. i reckon this is how they choose their wives, the royal blue blood inbred twats.


just like a perverted Cinderella, wills has to find the right hole that can sustain his enormous reptilian dinosaur cock (as they are all reptilian shape-shifters, the royals) - the exact right fit, for there is a girl out there that will - it has been predestined through dna, and it will most likely be a relative of his!


but really though, they're all, the royals, baby eating, human sacrificing satan worshipping (all for real!) oddballs, y'all!"

And in response to these pictures from here:

"Its not their penises, its diana's nose (harry's got the cloned one) that they keep tied round their leg, and keep with them as a lucky charm....i'm. ABSOLUTELY sure of it Infomainiac!!!!"

Some time through the day I got monumentally bored.

I suggested to Rhonaldo, Billiard, Slug and Party Time we have a circle jerk (wank race) and I open a book on it.

So that’s what we did. Party Time recommended the odds on me were shortest as I had a great cock, but that it had a hair trigger.

- Cant con meek hamshelf cam jooz bah thee site aff hees ahn cack! – Went Party Time.

Slug complained that with the Queen keeping on getting into shot it would put him off, so we placed him as the rank outsider.

The Sky News cut to the balcony and we were off…

Billiard has his great pale belly pulled up out of the way and was going hammer and tongs, his face near as purple as his bell end with all his concentration.

Party Time’s wouldn’t work, and the more frustrated he got the more he pulled and jerked at his big brown trunk. At one point he yanked at it so hard I thought he was gonna rip it off.

Rhonaldo and Slug had a good rhythm going, very boring, and I sat there stroking all my half-a-foot, slowly and smoothly, working up a fat little bead of precum before slathering it all over my helmet’s edge…

And just like that, when the new Royal Pair lean in to share their first kiss as a married couple, I shoot the shit just as their lips meet…right in their fucking faces…

We all laughed and swapped coin…