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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 - Danny, I'm in shockin trouble.

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

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

 - That I do Ju-Ju.

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

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

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

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

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

 - Whah thah than? - Asks Party Time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 - Thah rah, - said Party Time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 - Ah hav idea, Danny.

 - What?

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

 - How we manage to do that? And why?

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

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

Its Time For A Cowboy To Dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 - At ash murals cavrin the holy walls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah the glorious 12^th, eh?

Most glorious day of the year, mate!

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

He a Orange monkey? - He went.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 - Ah fuck ye then, - whined Micheesha -

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

No money and in for a hungry night. 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 - Yup... - I went.

The jittery Pole got to us just after sundown.

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

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

 - Hello, Fat Sandra, - I went.

 - Who as thahs cant? - Inquired Part Time.

 - This is Fat Sandra, - went I.

 - Ah rat, - went Party Time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck The #MTVEMAs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where you gonna go now, - I went.

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

Wee bitch, eh?

Yup.

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

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

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

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

 - Fuckin hell, - I went.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 - That costs £30, dickhead.

 - I go halfers with you?

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

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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