Doesn't Have A Point Of View, Knows Not Where He's Going To, Isn't He A Bit Like You & Me

"He always went with a jubilant spring in his step - but in his heart there swole a mushroom cloud on every horizon...and the possibility of one round every corner.
He had a car that never started anytime it rained, and he? he lived between worlds. It is lucky in a way, because the rain would depress him and make him drink. And so Mother Nature became his designated driver – raining on the car so it didn't start and preventing him from driving anywhere pissed."

There are people who ascribe some magic superstitions to cars. Like my Uncle Dudley; who in telling me this story this afternoon about the death his pal Billy Wheelbarrow in the summer of 1986 theorized that it were his car's bad luck (Billy Wheelbarrow's car's) that caused it to stall and crash on the M4 killing him instantly. 

Just like everyone knew would happen the car stopped working just as a heavy summer rain began and it crashed into a bus. 

Uncle Dudley said the downpour this afternoon, in an afternoon in 2011, reminded him, in its ferocity, of the rain that fell 25 years ago, in 1986, and that killed his pal Billy Wheelbarrow by stopping his car in its tracks on the motorway.

My Uncle Dudley is a great one for reminising. We get into arguments often when he reminisces as he does. Arguments over such things like: Where was The Woodstock Festival held? Uncle Dudley insists it were held on the Isle Of White...I go mental telling him it were upstate New York....sometimes my sis Micheesha tells me to let him be and let him think what he likes.

He is also a great one for the impromptu one liners. 

For e.g: We pulled up in Connswater's car park the other day. Uncle Dudley spied this cocky MILF exiting her car in the parking bay beside us. She'd a wide arse and a skinny waist... 

 ...Uncle Dudley yelled, - You love! You've an arse like a bag of spanners!

Uncle Dudley has bad nights and wakes from his sleep often. He screams out, “Leave Me Alone!” or “Fuck Off!”

Me and my sis Micheesha think he's done time and this is what he is shouting about. We think maybe he got a hard time in the clink and these are the terrible episodes he revisits every night in his nightmares.

But he takes me on runs up into the country. He races cross country over into Donegal. We appreciated the mountain ranges out there and take pictures, fucking with the perspective --- like I squat in the foreground, with some mountain in the background, lining it up so's it looks like I'm sitting with the pointy bit at the top of the mountain sticking up my hole.

Uncle Dudley loves this type of humour and loves it when the conversation turns blue.

Every time on the way home we end up buying cheap feags* and always, somewhere on the road, he gives me this micro-lecture about marriage, or rather about why you should never get married:

 - Why make one woman miserable when you can bring pleasure to so many?

 - Yeh, Uncle Dudley...Yeh!

Then he puts some Beatles in his cassette deck. And usually he plays this un, cos its his favourite:

*feags - cigarettes 

What Would I Say If She Asks What's New? "Nothing What's With You? Nothing Much To Do"

Just like a fucking dick I went and blew all that money I'd swindled off oul Granny in the Old Folks' Home buying up cocaine and Russian Standard vodka. So there would be no date with Deidre for the foreseeable, unless, that is, she were partial to McDonald's, cos that's as far as my coinage would stretch.

Also, due to these frugal shortcomings, I have left myself short – again!

I had all but a fiver to my name but still decided to take the bus into town so's to save my legs. Another reason for doing this was because the last time I were standing at my local stop a woman got off and gimmie her all-day ticket. This happened twice. Twice in a row. At this I felt very blessed. So much so that a kind of idolatry took hold, a holyman's convince-ment that this would happen a third time – and ascribed to this believe the classical holy trinity.

But it did not happen. And I had to pay the fucking larcenous £1.70 to take a ride over 2.5miles, if that. Fuck you Translink Metro buses. I didn't even find change on yer seats or under em – not down the aisle nor stuck down the connects in the long back seat – and I only got on yer fucking rolling extortion wagon so that this might happen....Though, I have to say, when the kind lady didn't step off the bus that third time today to offer me her (free) all-day ticket, I felt my heart sink, knowing a treasure trove of silver & shrapnel did not await, knowing it intuitively – for the magic trinity had been prematurely snuffed.

I dandered through town. Starving I was. I used this whirring hunger to hone my survival acumen, imagining it as one of those spinning, sparking wheels people use to sharpen swords on. I went past a stall with a man selling counterfeit Ben10 shite. He were shouting, - Five lighters for a poun'! - and I remembered back to when I were younger when mother led me by the hand round town round “all the shaps! Lookin for a bargain!” and I used to hear these men shouting “Five lighters for a poun'!” and I remember there was a WAY they shouted it, it weren't so much like they were making an offer, more like they were boasting about it. I remember thinking:

These men have all just landed themselves a bargain; a bargain of a lifetime by the sounds of it. They have been waiting out the back of some warehouse, some lighter warehouse, and they all, to a man, have been gifted 5 lighters for a pound. And now they are standing in the middle of the street shouting about it, like a William Blake lunatic loudly describing his visions or a newly converted religious fanatic pledging his devotion to some extraterrestrial hundred-eyed deity. Some even set up a stall to show off how many they'd bought...

...And then I had a brainwave walking along: You could buy up a loada those all-day tickets – photoshop the dates (which is how the drivers know you purchased them that day) print em out, scrunch em up a bit to get them authentic, then sell em on for a 1/3^rd of the price...

So I dandered back home, back to my 'work station' to map out my plan.

My feelings were happy and my mind empty as I went back up my street. I started getting a hard-on imagining all the fresh fanny I'd get to slice after I got rich off my new idea. But in the ennui of my mental triumph I once again experienced a dark bleed-in of all the guilt I felt at swindling Imaginary Granny in the Old Folks' Home. It were a guilt exacerbated by the cocaine comedown that no amount of grass (bought for the purposes of mental comedown buffer) could shield me from.

But then, ahead of me, I saw Mrs Mulberry struggling along with her shopping. The beginnings of my penitence hand delivered! So I jogged along, took the old duck's bags with a smile and carried them all the way to her dining room table. And I didn't nick a thing. Sat and had a cup of tea with her as a matter of fact.

She asked me what I were doing with my life and I told her that it didn't matter what, in the here and now, but it WAS important that I felt it were gonna change...someday...only into what I couldn't tell right now...in this moment in time.  

Good Things Turn Bad But Its Over Now, So Don't Look Sad Cos You're Older Now

She passed me this afternoon in the street while I waited for a bus at the bus stop.

In the wake of her passing there is this feminine waft left lingering, eddying gently in aromatic swirls invisible to the naked eye – but - I could smell in it the peachiest scent, and, mixed with that, the universal musk of a woman just off the blob and ready to mate.

It were only when she passed did I pay any notice of her. This smell of her's led my senses in a lusty and fidgety imagined pursuit, like it were a pornographic Pied Piper and my nose an erotically curious tween.

I watched her arse shift, roll and swing in the summery shirt dress she were wearing loosely. I imagined placing hands on those sweet, round arse cheeks of her's, squeezing so's to check that they made nice soft cushions for my lips to plant themselves on in wet, pink kisses.

I wondered what her name was, then from behind me I noticed the mad hard footfall of a running child, and then a child came running past me. It were a girl.

 - Deidre, Deidre, - she shouted, - Mummy said 'Get Milk!' - And my question were answered.

Then the bus I were waiting for came and I got on it.

The point of my excursion out today was to obtain legal tender by means fair or foul.

I went and stood in Fountain Lane, in a doorway with a baseball cap before me. I sang the first two lines of the chorus of Beyonce/Sasha Fierce's recent hit 'Sweet Dreams'

“(turn the lights on) Sweet Dream or a Beautiful Nightmare/Either way, I don't wanna wake up from you (turn the lights on)”

I screamed this out, over and over again like a loud turned up CD that were jumping. I didn't know any of how the rest of the track went. I had had it stuck in my head all day and so went in for a bit of impromptu busking, as I thought: Why not?

Suffice to say not much coinage came my way. One oul fucker with two gimpy legs, like God'd attached them back to front, even had the temerity to come over and say,

 - Here! Yer destined for the nuthouse, you!

 - Away and die, - I went.

So it ended up I got a brainwave and got on a bus out to the sticks.

My brainwave went thusly: Out in the sticks, usually far back down some lane and sandwiched between very respectable and well kept detached houses you will find, without a hassle, an Old Peoples' Hospice/Nursing Home. I would enter the first one of these I found and go to the old person's room nearest the exit. It was also imperative that the elderly person's room were on the ground floor as well (lest a relative disturb me or the oldie raises a fuss. Both cases I've to go out the window). I would pull my hat down over my face in case of CCTV.

And this is what I did:

I found an old people's home out somewhere, - where I won't say. I entered it through the main entrance at the side and located the closest old person's room, which was approximately 15 foot down a hall, which was located to my immediate left as I went in.

I knocked and entered the room. An old lady, whose loose-skinned and wrinkly face resembled a bootprint in the mud, looked from the carpet and smiled at me.

 - Hello, granny! - I went.

 - Hello, Fanny! How are you this fine summer's afternoon?

 - Not so bad, granny. I have been worse. But I doubt you've been?!

 - Oh. You are a cad, Maurice!

 - That's what fame's me!

 - Yes, sir!

We spent the rest of the afternoon discussing her duties as a WREN during WW2. I told he a story about how I got a job on a trawler off the Donegal Coast, but got fired after the first day after I got seasick and demanded they turn back and let me off. - I told them, - I told the old doll, - that if they didn't I'd throw myself overboard!

All lies.

 - What an adventurer you are, Pervis.

 - Yes, granny, but not a very brave one. Maybe a very queasy one. Why they had me gutting the fish right there on the deck. That combined with the smell of the gasoline in their gasoline engine had me nearly losing my dinner, granny!

 - ...Oh, yes. You're a great one for the adventures. Me? I've never had any adventures. Never lived in 'interesting times'.

 - Oh! Come granny! You did your bit in WW2! Saw 9/11...and what an extravaganza that was, bigger than the world's ever seen. Some will look back on this period, your period granny, as the moment the wave broke and an endless spectrum of beautiful, strange energies and ideas spread across the landscape of the human psyche. And this is occurring in the twilight of your years granny...the apex of your dotage...you are here to bear witness!

 Granny sat staring at me for a long time. She then said: - I'm not well up on all the drugs you young people are on nowadays.

 - Well as a matter of fact, that's why I'm here for, Granny. It seems to me you are on a lotta drugs to keep you well, but we're all on a lotta drugs now, granny. There's a lot of us need a lotta drugs to keep us well. Some in the body and some in the mind. The thing is granny, a man of my age still has to pay for his drugs, but the communists stole my money from me this morning -

 - Oh those communists. They are a bad lot.

 - Yes. They sent out their paramilitary forces, in the guise of the IRA -

 - Another shower -

 - Sent them out and they stole my money...now, granny, you always told me that if I came up short, or if the communists stole my money you would help me out. I see your bag down there under your chair. I am going to take some money from it. Then I'll be on my way.

 - You do that, my boy. I know what kind of scoundrels those communists are, and their IRA would make  Belsan look like Butlins!

 - That's correct, granny, - I went as I rifled through her purse, my vision blurry from the guilt.

My entire haul was £82.75 in notes, pound coins and shrapnel.

I decided to walk home, entertaining the thought in my mind while I went of using some of the cash to take Deidre out on a date.

But it was only a airy teenage fantasy.

You Men Eat Yer Dinner, Eat Yer Pork & Beans. I Eat More Chicken Any Man Ever Seen

 It were lucky I ran into Dirty Jude this afternoon cos my ballsack was ready for bursting.

I saw her standing two places ahead of me at the local petrol station. She had in her basket a box of Malteasers and a pair of new silk tights. She still looked fine did Dirty Jude. Pushing 60 I'm sure, but you could shave a good few years off her figure on account of her having no kids, ergo she could pass for late 40s no worries.

I snuck my way up behind her and stuck my hand between her legs. She jumped with a Monroe twitter and gimmie a big smile when she saw it were yours truly, Danny Pongo.

 - Hiya, Danny. Long time no see, chick. What you been at? And how's that moonbat ma of your's?

 - I'm still duckin & divin, you know me, Dirty Jude. And my mother, she's got herself involved with some holy hollers that pedal their madness down in Cornmarket.

 - Yer ma's a headcase. You wanna come for a drink with me, hot stuff? Talk over all our yesterdays?

 - Lead the way, Vaseline Sheila -

 - Oh fuck me! Haven't been called that in a while!

She took me to The Point on the Upper Newtownards Road, which is where she's from. She ordered a big jug of Sex On The Beach and two straws. We sat, most of the afternoon, perched over that one and 3 more after, noses nearly touching, talking about our very passionate sexual affair when I was all of Sweet 16.

 - Guess we've yer ma to thank for introducing us. I remember the first time I met her, at that PTA meeting she brought you to. You were only around 9 or 10. I was the principal's secretary, and he'd me there taking notes. I remember after yer ma comin up to me cos we were wearing the same top...she said 'Yer wearin the same top as me. Go home or take it off', and I shot back, ' Go home yerself, and take that wee boy with you. Having him out at this time of night. No da and very little ma I think,' I said to her looking down at you.

 - I remember that, Dirty Jude. I remember looking up at you. You had black fishnet stockings on. I could see right up your skirt.

 - That's right. I remember you telling me that when we started dating. Called them my lucky stockings after that.

 - I remember that like it were five minutes ago. You'd legs like Bo Derek and a do like Bonnie Tyler. I wanted to climb up those fishnets and crawl inside yer womb.

 - Ahh haha! You were a dirty wee fucker even at that age, then?

 - Always, Dirty Jude. Never keep a good dick down.

 - Then yer ma invited me round for a game of Buckaroo that Christmas. There you were, ripped, with yer undercut, wearing a Nirvana T-Shirt. You were dick on a stick, hon.

 - Yeah, sweetheart -

 - And you knew it.

 - Yeh...

 - I turned 41 that following January.

 - We were both on the crest of our sexual peak, cos I turned 17 one month later -

 - That's right sweetpea! February 14^th...Not since Jesus bein born on Christmas Day did a person so suit a date of birth!

When we both ran outta dough we decamped to her house. We weren't even in the door before I had her on her back on the stairs, her soggy gusset round her ankles, me up & down like a piston, arse in the air, knees in the carpet, fucked her fast deep and hard, reckoned my dick coulda knocked holes through walls, the horny fast violence of every single stroke.

Afterward found us on her hammock in her conservatory. I brought up her penchant for role playing back then...

 - Remember we fucked for a solid two days, and I was all like: 'I'm bored of just coming and coming and having these boring man-orgasms. I wish I knew what you felt every time you came, -

 - And I told you I could make you know what that felt like.

 - You educated me in how the male g-spot was located up the arse.

 - You were like a jittery virgin to begin with.

 - Yeh.

 - So I spiced up proceedings. Suggested we play a little dress-up...

 - You put me in yer babydoll and suspenders, -

 - And I got my da's old dance hall threads from outta the roofspace.

 - Hat and all with the feather in the brim.

 - You were fucked off yer face that night.

 - Yer uncle brought us some nice weed over.

 - That's right...and you were lying on my big bed smokin a rocket and I came in the room wearin' me da's exotic dance hall threads, packin my big black latex strap-on, -

 - And you were all like, 'Where's my money bitch?'

 - And you were all, 'I don't have it, daddy!'

 - And I said, 'Well you know what happens when bitches don't bring me my scratch?!'

 - I said, 'You rape 'em wise?'

 - That's right, stud...and I took my suit off, climbed in beside you, pulled yer babydoll up and peeled yer thong off, round yer nice round arse, Danny, -

 - Slid that big black dong up there, -

 - Don't forget, spat on me hand and rubbed it all round yer hole for lube, -

 - Then slid it up there,-

 - Fucked you nice and smooth, -

 - I called you daddy, -

 - And I was all, 'You gonna come bitch, you gonna come...'

 - And fuck did I come. Most dick climaxes are over in the blink of an eye...seriously...just like that. I come in a woman and she's shaking and moaning long, long after I am...

 - But I learnt you how to come like a woman that night, Danny...

 - That you did, Dirty Jude...That you did...

I started stiffening up again. She slipped her thong off and I stuck my finger and thumb up her hole.

Still my Back Door Man, lover...

 - “The men don't know; but the little girls understand.”

Dirty Jude did that Monroe twitter again, then yielded sweetly...

...In The Dark Your Hair's Just As Red, And This Long Dark Cave Will Always Be Our Wedding Bed

Today my face began to flake off in a scaly reptilian fashion, uncovering by slight, incremental degrees a red raw tissue underneath.

I became very worried by this. I put it down to semi alcoholism and dodgy amphetamines. Kidneys long ago packed in and a liver that hurts like fuck unless I sit a certain way.

A while after noticing this I stood admiring myself in my bathroom mirror for the longest time. Smoothed out my decolletage and tensed my abs. I turned and stood side on, inspecting my arse and my posture. Then I went out.

I found myself on North Street walking along breathing in the heavy, charged pre-rain air and smiling at the vexed and impatient faces of the people shuffling past, hurrying to bus stops or taxi ranks in order to get in before the downpour.

I passed a hairdressers someway along, coming to near the end of the street, where I found my old chum from high school Pink Eye sitting in a shop doorway busking by strumming a ukulele.

To begin with he greeted me with a profound expression of incredulous misidentification when I insisted it were I, Danny Pongo. He could not believe the short, shy beanpole he used to go to school with had expanded into squat and gregarious little roly-poly me.

He packed up his ukelele and took me round to the Deer's Head for a drink. Over our first he told me how after he got expelled for selling blow to first years (he were 15, in 4^th year at the time) his da got him working pro bono on the bin rounds across Belfast, in a type of recompense for his bold behaviour in school.

So he pulled his socks up, straightened out and got on with it.

After he turned 18 he got paid the regular wage, just like rest of them on the rounds. Then he were promoted to the street sweeper van. And by then kids with the wife he had, and the one kid with the wife he'd left, had come about in the course of living. Add into the mix a regular and heavy gambling habit and poor old Pink Eye, always, at months' end, without fail, would always come up a little short in the cash flow department.

So he came up with a money making scheme that saw him taking the street sweeper van around independent taxi firms every evening at the end of his shift with the offer of cheap petrol. The cabbies took him up on it and Pink Eye got a roaring trade going siphoning what juice was left in the tank after his shift and selling it on.

Then the nosey parkers, as they do, got involved. Started 'making enquiries' and Pink Eye's shenanigans got investigated by head office. It didn't take them long to catch him in the act, and not even his father, who'd put in 30+ years collecting bins, could grant him any clemency.

So Pink Eye were on the street, hustling, but very green round the gills. He took up with this woman (who worked in the hairdressers he were busking outside of today) and had a brief but passionate tryst with her. So passionate that in the space of a week or two he'd wooed himself into her house and ended up living there for not a short while. Then she took a liking for another fella, a boy that come in to get his hair cut with her at the hairdressers (who would request she did it, specifically) and Pink Eye was out on his arse again, twice in 6 months.

But he had, in the short time he'd been with her, become infatuated with the girl. He took to writing her simple little ballads and playing them on the ukulele outside the hairdressers. She tried to get a restraining order out on him, but Pink Eye did some law book swotting and found that he was well within his rights to busk in the vicinity of her hairdressers.

Which is what he did every afternoon.

My heart was warmed by this tale, and a tear swelled in the corner of my eye. I got embarrassed and excused myself from the table. Went and put this un on the jukebox:

I'm Standing In The Wind But I Never Wave Bye-Bye...But I Try

Mother got in very late the other night. She had this freak Nirab, leader of the big shot Christian sect, with her.

- Just away to the little girls' room, - went mother, me cringing.

Nirab came over and plonked himself down on the arm of the chair I was sitting in.

- Yer ma's hot stuff, - he went.
- Don't be getting any ideas. Anyway, I thought you were a man of God? Didn't think you lot went in for sins of the flesh?
- We've all our temptations and shortfalls, Danny. Especially us ones that're drawn to the divine...ha! That's a good one isn't it? I think I'll use it on yer mother, hey? What do you think...'Mildred...years I have sought the Divine, but I'm never closer to it that when I am by your side.'...What you think, Danny? - He went, licking his chops.
- I think you better get out before I tell my mother the sort of man you really are!
- Don't be darft! Your mother knows the sort of man I am. She wouldn't be after me if she didn't.
- I know your sort...Jim Jones, Charley Manson, Jesus...fuckin do a few parlour tricks and say yer the Son Of Man and you get to snake any girl that crosses yer path! 

I was getting red in the face.

Mother reentered the room.

- What you yelling at Nirab for, Danny? - Whimpered mother.
- He's a fuckin pervert, - I went.
- I know. And ain't it grand?! He's sexually very adventurous!
- You ever seen a woman squirt before, Danny? - Went Nirab, his rheumy right eye red and glinting.
- Yeah, master of it, - I went.
- Yer ma doesn't leave much to be desired you know, in the bedroom. See that tattoo she got on her ankle.
- Oh yes this lovely dolphin on my ankle, - went mother cooing. - That fucking witch Sam Cameron stole that one on me.
- Well I have a theory, - went Nirab rubbing his chin, faux academical like. - I have a theory that women with tattoos take it up the hole...

I got up and went to the front door.

- Mother, I'm going. I got what I came here to get and I'm leaving.
- Thought ye'd like to join us? - went Nirab.
- Fuck off, Jonestown!

At this mother threw her head back and laughed like a loon. - Go get the lube and the shitewipe, woman, - went Nirab, loud enough for me to hear.

On the way down mother's drive I keyed Nirab's car and broke a windscreen wiper off.

I prayed that on his way home, driving up the motorway, it would start pouring and having no wipers to clear his window to see where he was going and nowhere to stop he'd plough headfirst into the back of an articulated lorry at not an inconsiderable speed and die instantly.

I sat listening to records at home and dropped the last of the acid I'd creamed off the Jewish Hippies.

I reflected on mother's infatuation with Nirab, putting this one on to colour my surmisings:

So What's The Girl To Do? Who Sits On The Couch And She's Feeling Blue

Sometimes I'll cough so hard so's to bring up a big bit of brown gack from the back of my throat threatening to make me boke my ring up just by the sight of it alone.

Earlier I found a bit of foul chicken in the back of the fridge and give it a good sniff, something which's one of my hobbies, sniffing rotten things (I also like to stare at rotten things too: like dead pigeons that've been run over by a truck and burst their innards out all over the road -- like odd shaped and/or coloured dog shite).

It was a very foul smelling chicken breast that'd gone green and sprouted little white polyps. The smell shot through my olfactory canals and I peeled off in circles round and round my rustic kitchen as dry bokes jackknifed my body while my arms flailed wildly in autonomous grasping desperation, trying to find any ledge to hang off. I grabbed the back of my one kitchen chair (smashed the other one to bits after Kimba left me) and led it on a merry waltz around the table looking to find a place to put it down that didn't have slimy, slidey shite underneath.

When I was still I hung from the back of the chair my arms outstretched and coughing violently. After the coughing fit I opened my eyes and stared intently at the black and white checkerboard lino. Then, all around, from the outside creeping in to the centre, my vision had been invaded by silver worms of white light that seemed to have slid through the cracks in the ether and appeared on my kitchen floor.

I squinted in great confusion at this. Blinked hard twice like a heavy lidded be-witched Disney character till they disappeared.

I decided to go round to my mother's as she had cupboardfuls or Pure Orange. As I was under the impression I were having a bad trip, I reckoned the vitamin C would bring me down. Mother also had some milk-o-magnesia which I'd have for my bad stomach. She likes to spoon it to me when I am feeling poorly, even now, at this age, but I let her, cos otherwise she will not give it to me and I will have to go and buy some at a chemist.

I arrive at mother's, but she is not in. I wait a bit while I drink lots of orange with crushed up ice in it and feel better, less prone to hallucinating. I wait a little bit longer then go and check under her bed for her Bible. Her Bible is not there, meaning only one thing: she will not be back for a while as she is down town at Corn Market preaching for these bunch of big deal holy rollers, but ulterior-ly cos she's her eye on their leader, Nirab.

I accompanied her once to stand with her and this weird posse of God Botherers handing out depressing leaflets about the End Of The World and the Anti-Christ. By us at another sadness-stall (as I came to call them) was this other lot who were Pro-Lifers. They had big blow up shots of late term aborted fetuses pasted onto boards and lined up along the edge of their table. An old doll came over and put her foot through one. I laughed and went off to buy a Big Mac and on the way back one of them came up to me holding out one of their aborted fetus boards and I yell: - I'm fuckin eatin' a Big Mac. What you doin? C'mon! Play the game! - And she went, - Pepsi get their flavour from aborted fetus cells! - To which I yelled back, - McDonalds! - putting on like a full-spastic and waving my Big Mac wrapper at her, when she went, - ASSOCIATION!

I smeared the half ate Big Mac on the Pro-Lifer's fetus board and boked on her back when she turned to call for reinforcements. The crazy bitches chased me halfway up Ann Street till I started shouting, - Suicide Bombers! Suicide Bombers! - and they backed off.

So I sat reminising about this and getting blue, bluer still when I thought I saw the ghost of Boke the Cat.

Then I put this one in ma's cassette player cos it suited the mood:

Can You Find Me Sanctuary

I was walking up my street early this evening having been down the The Village on the Donegal Road all day buying some acid I were fencing to this cabal of Jewish Hippies that'd come up to Belfast for the day from Tallaght, Dublin.

So I were walking back up my street and this trio of spidelings (i.e. spides/smicks under the age of 10 and a half) were playing in the street, stomping a guinea pig to death, when one of them sticks his nose in the air, this wee Golem lookin fuckin one, and turns and sees me coming, and shoots the evil eye at me while tapping away at his buddy on the shoulder for him to look and see me coming, too.

So they're all, the three of them, alert to my coming, like they'd been waiting for me. They get up off the ground, stop stomping that guinea pig to death, and run over and sit down on the footpath against my front wall. And they begin: harmonising like the Beach Boys, wretched as a Greek Chorus: 

- Here, here, c'mon and lick my ballsack, lick my ballsack, lick my ballsack, won't ye please? Here, here, c'mon and hire my Cossack, hire my Cossack, hire my Cossack, they almost work for free!!!

On and on they sang, their crystal annunciations pouring from the faces of choirboys.

Then when I went to go up my path one of em gets up and gets in my way. I try and step round him but he blocks me.

- Here! My mate says ye licked his ballsock? Tha' true?
- Wouldn't lick his ma's gash. Don' like fish, me.
- Hear wha' he's sayin'? - Says the little cunt to his mates. - He's gonna go home and tell his da you licked his ballsock. His da's gonna come roun' here and fuckin' knack you out!
- Well, he knows where I live. Tell him I'll be in all night. And I'll be waiting for him.
- Big talk, Comanche. But he'll fuckin tear ye a new one, -
- Good. I've been meaning to renew mine anyway. So tell him I'll pay him if he likes. Now, for the meantime, get the fuck outta my road!

The child went white and stepped off.

Then I went into my house and dropped some acid.

Then I stuck on the turntable...:

Vicky's Got Her Story About The Mirror And The Cane

A rainy, rainy, rainy day. Never knew so much water could exist in one place as all the water that poured from the heavens this afternoon.

I ran into an old flame today from back when I used to live in a homeless hostel on the Ormeau Road.

She called herself Cuntrash Cloud-Hopper back in them days but now went by her real name of Jemima, now she'd grown up. 

Back then the girl was hot to trot, a real cream-yer-cacks merchant, and it was a lucky fella, we all thought, who would slice her first.

The reason for the luckiness of the cunt that popped Jemima's hostel-cherry was that this cunt, like every other cunt in the place, was probably carrying the clap or some other cringey STD. Ergo the first cunt that got to slice her would probably load her with something half deadly or give her a bushful of fucking lice, fucking sex maggots (got em more often than I can count on me fingers and toes) and after that, yer just gonna have to take yer chances when yer bucking her. Maybe put a sock on as a extra strength prophylactic instead of yer usual jube. And what's the point in that, even with a fox like Cuntrash Cloud-Hopper  aka Jemima? May as well wank into yer soup, fuck's sake.

Back then me and Jemima used to move from house to house between favours owed, soft touches and people we knew well who give out. But shit with me and her was always straight up, everything surface level on a platonic scale, and we were all the better for it. She shared secrets with me that 'that cunt', the one who sliced first slices last, that one, secrets that he'd never even have got wind of.

Some of the stuff she revealed were so disgusting I wished often that it were me bucking her and 'that cunt' doing all the listening. But as it was I just listened. I used to like holding her when she started bawling. I closed my eyes and got my way into thinking she were experiencing a full body orgasm in my arms.

Yeh, Jemima were a hotty, a strange and mystic fox who was always second guessing me in intricate games of wits.

I was just so lucky I was going through a stage in my life when I was dining out on an exclusively homosexual basis. Some time not long after meeting Jemima I got myself a room in a house on University Avenue, where I got to turning tricks for oldmen Freemasons to make ends meet.

It all started one morning with my fat landlord and me tottering in the living room screaming blue murder and fighting the bit out over a quibble with the bill. The rotten old Jabba The Cunt, a man who when he spoke sounded like he were in the throes of heavy salivation, stuck his hand down my trackie bottoms and gripped my plums gently.

- What you say, Mr Pongo? - He went up in my face his breath smelling like he'd wiped a dogs arse with his tongue.
- I say you let me live here rent free I see what I can do fer you.
- On a regular basis?
- Yeh, bub. On a regular basis.

What the Fat Landlord had failed to mention was that this regular homosexual pleasuring did not start and end with him. Soon Freemasons from his lodge were impatiently inquiring after the flexibility of my rapid wanking wrist and the plumpness of my life-raft fat blowjob lips.

One fucking nutjob, who claimed to be from the Lodge on the Park Road, opposite Ormeau Park, Lodge No. 641, claimed his lot, The St Helens Masonic Lodge, mutilated babies and dismembered them and threw their ripped off limbs round themselves just like they were the finest (and latest) silk and lace accessories.

He also claimed, while climaxing in my face one cold December afternoon, that some type of seer from fore-mentioned Lodge was responsible (as was Lodge as a whole) for the killing that poor child Brian McDermott.

I had heard, subsequent to that, that it were some pornographer from the Red Hand Commando who ran a sweet shop on the Ravenhill Road killed the boy. But maybe they were one and the same, the seer and the pornographer?

More later, when I make rearrangements in the remembering dept.  

There Once Was A Poodle Who Thought He Was A Cowboy...

I do so fucking hate getting a wash. It was though, unfortunately, a complete necessity today as after getting my haircut a load of wee jaggies had gone down my back causing a frantic blur of itching on the bus on the way home. To others on the bus (delivering odd and morbidly enquiring looks) it must’ve looked like I were suffering from some sort of mental illness that manifested in extreme histrionics mostly.

So I was glad to get back into the house, and once settled the jaggies didn’t cause half as much annoyance as when I was out, walking around. So I procrastinated and procrastinated for two and half hours altogether. I watched The Searchers twice and had a wank over John Wayne, something I always end up doing when I watch one of his flicks two times in a row.

Then after smoking my 7^th rollie and loudly sighing at my lack of brainpower in conjuring another diversion to keep me from the bath, I roused myself to get up when my telephone rings.

It was my mother.

-         It is your mother calling, - she says with her clipped accent.

-         I know it is. Your name came up. I have you listed as ‘mum’.

-         Comfortable. Good. Well, I need you to come round. I broke my hand trying to swat a fly.

-         How in the name of fuck did you do that?

-         Not my whole hand, mind you, just my pointing finger and my fingering finger –

-         Ah! No! Don’t…! Don’t use rhetoric like that with me!

-         Why not? Its natural.

-         No it is not! Not natural. Talking to me, using those descriptions, it’s akin to incest!

-         Ahh! Get away to hell!

-         Tell me, how’d you do that trying to swat a fly?

-         I was chasing the thing round the kitchen all afternoon when it landed on your cousin Donatello’s face, forehead to be precise about it, as he sat on the floor doing a Thunderbirds jigsaw. And I smacked it flat as a pancake with the palm of my hand. But poor Donatello thought I was giving him a smack for no good reason, and grabbed my fingers and squeezed till he broke them. Strong as oxen are those ones with Down’s Syndrome.

-         Yes, - I went.

-         But that’s not all. Donatello went screaming out of the house like a Loony Toon with a mashed up fly all over his bake. So I’ve sent your sister Micheesha and Stupid Peter out to find him. I want you to come over here and make my dinner for me. I can’t do nathin with two broken fingers.

-         Right.

-         And bring me some bourbon.

-         Will do.

So I went over with her bourbon and made her Birdseye burgers, which I quartered and served to her on crackers with cheese melted on. She loves this and it is all she eats.

Later we stood by the big kitchen window birdwatching. She let me drink a bourbon, too. I put this track on her cassette player to keep the mood of he moment going.  


  

How To Eliminate All Human Error

This afternoon I decided to take a walk up the road to get a new haircut.

The barber himself, the best cutter I’ve been at and who I go to often, has an enjoyable habit of letting all the hair he cuts collect around each seat. He also has a habit of going between 2 (sometimes 3) men doing a little bit on each, kicking the hair, ankle deep by afternoon time, this way and that like he were moving through a field of fresh, cottony snow.

This afternoon I sat and watched as the salt & pepper hair of the old man in the seat jumped away from his head in a blur of barber’s scissors and glided toward the floor, spiralling with slow grace like autumn leaves.

On the cute little dark tone wood coffee table, upon which sat men’s muscle magazines and the tabloids, I found a strange little self-published book entitled ‘How To Eliminate All Human Error’.  

I flicked through it and read the lengthy introduction, charting the author’s life, focusing particularly on the teenage years when he found himself 2 fights away from becoming the All Ireland flyweight champion. It was during this time, while bearing the rigid discipline required of a successful slugger, that the author made a discovery borne of such a life. He saw that a boxer must have two brains (I thought reading it: probably due to the fact that you’ll need a spare in the trunk after all the damage the primary one takes). That he must prime each one for defensive and offensive moves. Out of this duality of mind power the man discovered ‘How To Eliminate All Human Error’.

The rest of the book discussed how this was possible. Garbled and obscure language was the staple of every other sentence. Bullet points ran on for pages and pages, often repeating themselves outright or making the same point with different wording…

I was at a loss. The last quarter of the book illustrated its points using Bible quotations. These were, in relation, much easier to understand, but where at their heart just generic ideological notions, like: Eat Only Vegan, or, Always Pull The Thorn From The Lion’s Paw.

I felt the quality of the paper and greased up the laminate cover with my sweaty thumbprints.

Then it was my turn for the barber’s chair. I took a pen outta my pocket and where it said Eat Only Vegan I added an ‘s’

Eat Only Vegans 


         

What's It Like To Be A Loon? I Liken It To A Baloon

Today I got in my motor and took a run up into the country.

The country smelt worse than the last time I visited. I went to a site where I knew they did cattle burnings over the whole Foot & Mouth national perturbance and performed what I thought were a kinda spell. It was my will to bring down a national plague transmitted to the populace through the medium of bad beef.

I drove on, taking her wide round tight corners and through a field for the craic. I spat in the eye of a big black dog that chased my motor up a lane and tired to run sheep of a cliff round Warrenpoint.

I let her coast don through the Fourwinds and joined the rest of the automotive civilisation on the Saintfield Rd.

I paid a visit to Uncle Dudley (My Uncle) and looped through the city centre to see if I could spot Party Time around.

Before going home I stopped at the offies and got some beer and vodka. I passed the spot where Boke the Cat was found dead and crossed myself and said a prayer for him again reccommending his soul to the Saint of Animals (whoever that is), that the poor thing's spirit should reside in or around the Rainbow Bridge.

At home I drank my beer, had a smoke and lay on my bed...I put Mark Bolan on the hi-fi and pondered the imponderables: Like, how's it feel to be a loon? Is it always the same...? Can it be reduced to a series of adjectives...?

I remembered this article I read once in UFO Magazine about the death of Mark Bolan, killed instantly (if memory serves) when his car hit a tree. I reckoned this would be a terrible way to go...its a fear of driving I have, to die in a car wreck. One of my all time greatest fears: to be tearing round some tight little country road only to meet a wee raker head on, coming the other way, - for him to come through his front window then trough yours too, his head crashing through your ribcage and sinking itself deep in your chest cavity and you waiting there, for maybe hours, in total never-before-imagined agony, waiting for the ambulance to come.

I think about my own death. The circumstances and the time I have left...I see life as like a countdown clock. It is. But I hope the end is painless. In my sleep or from the end of a gun .Quick. But above all painless.