Belfast's turned really busy and a bollox to go into now since the shopping craze has started. I was taking a short cut down through the wee alley at the back of Queen Street to avoid the crowds when I ran into my brother Wino Jo and his mate Foosted Wotsit Head. They were scabbing for change because they needed to buy some drink. I was all short or I'd have given them some. Wino Jo was always good to me when I was a kid. He'd always bring me home some stickers for my WWF (as it was called then) Sticker Album, I nearly filled it but all I was missing was The Brooklyn Brawler (but sure he was pish anyway) and a quarter of the Big Bossman.

I felt bad about not being able to give them any money because the two of them don't really get on when they're sober, they just end up fighting and then they get arrested.

I was surprised that they didn't have more money with all the extra shoppers in town. I said this to them, half-trying to lead the conversation on.

"Aye," says Foosted Wotsit Head, "but you forget this is Belfast."

I didn't really know what he meant but Wino Jo looked at him like he'd just said something really profound so I just left it at that.

I woke up this morning to find Battle Cat had indeed shat all over the kitchen floor. Fabian Wildman was tip-toeing round it making his breakfast. He was smoking and I wasn't sure if it was a spliffy or a straight.

"It's just tobacco," he said holding it up after catching me eyeing it.
"Maybe we shouldn't smoke anything round him, you know, he's only a puppy, don't want to hurt his lungs."
"Yeah, no bother," he said taking his food and going off into the livingroom with it. My food really. I need to have a talk with Fabian about what he pays and what he needs to start paying. I'm letting him live here rent free after all, even though I'm having my rent paid for me he's still pocketing whatever money he gets.

I clean up Battle Cat's turds and have some breakfast of my own. After that I took him for a walk. He's a lively wee thing and we got down as far as the Lagan Meadows. It's a nice place to take him even if it was a bit cold.

While we're there I talk to him about all manner of stuff. Mostly about Hermione and how I'd like to be her boyfriend but she doesn't exist so I can't, and how I'd thought Hooka was a bit like Hermione because she did magic too, and how she was going out with Fat Rab and how I'd hoped him and The Death Owl would go to jail so I'd be in with a chance but that didn't happen and how I'm going to get him to maul The Death Owl when he's older.

He just woofed along pleasantly, even though he hasn't met any of these people and probably can't understand English it was just nice to have someone to tell this stuff too and get it off my chest.

I woke up last night and looked out the window. There was a big wind blowing I knew that Battle Cat must have been freezing out in the back garden. When I got down to the back door the poor wee thing was scratching at it, so I let him in. He was wagging his tail all happy once he got into the heat. I got an old wicker chair in the corner and took his blanket out of his kennel and let him curl up all snug in it. He seemed so happy. I went back to bed feeling all good about myself and woke up to find that the wee bastard had shat all over the floor. I couldn't really blame the dirty wee bugger so I cleaned it up and got him some scran.

I tried house training him, which meant spreading a newspaper in the corner and pushing Battle Cat onto it whenever he needed to take a dump. It didn't go too bad but the book I've been reading says it can take up to six months to properly house train him, so unless I sit up with him all night I can expect to find the kitchen floor covered in shit again tomorrow morning. This isn't so bad. It's a tiled floor so at least, unlike carpet, I can clean it thoroughly.

When Fabian Wildman woke up me and him had a good smoke of crack while the puppy played out in the garden. Fabian is taking his time to settle and he seems a bit more at peace now he doesn't live with The Death Owl. I'll leave it a while yet but when Battle Cat starts getting bigger I want to ask Fabian for a photo of The Death Owl because I want to stick it on a mannequin and teach Battle Cat to attack it. That way whenever he meets The Death Owl he'll know what to do.

I had gone and got my Big Violent Dog long before Fabian Wildman had even woken up. The thing is he's not a Big Violent Dog yet. I thought it'd be better to get him as a pup and make friends with him before he becomes Big and Violent. He's a mongral breed, looks a bit like a labrador pup but bigger, the guy who sold him didn't know what the breeds were but he thinks there's a bit of rotwiller in there.

I walked him back to the house on a lead I bought in the pet shop the other day. Buying lots of doggy stuff cost a fair bit and my hot shot banker brother helped pay for most of it. He says the responsibility of owning a dog will be good for me.

My biggest problem was the pup's name. I couldn't think of a name for him.
Fabian Wildman came out to see him in his oul scruffy dressing gown and slippers and not much else and the poor pup ran in behind me. So Fabian said we should call him Cringer, like in He-Man. Cringer doesn't sound like the sort of dog that would eat anyone, so I thought Battle Cat would be better. Fabian said you can't have a dog called Battle Cat but I said if you can have a man called Bear Grylis you can have a dog called Battle Cat.

I gave Fabian a lecture about not freaking him out with his knife and the golden rule: we never smoke crack round him.

I got Battle Cat some scran and put him in his kennel. I threw in one of those squeaky toy bones for him to play with and an oul rug that I never do anything with. I hope he's happy here.

As it turns out living with Fabian Wildman is a mix of bad and good. For one thing his vinyl collection is great, full of all these really old records from the forties onwards. He doesn't have anything post-1980. There's some real gems in there including a song called Who Put The Benzedrine In Mrs. Murphy's Ovaltine by some guy called Harry The Hipster. Me and Fabian Wildman sat and played it again and again laughing away to ourselves as we smoked crack. I can't wait to see what else he has in there.



After that I went to sleep and woke up to find him wandering round the living room speaking in tongues. I shouted at him a few times but he just kept doing it. I started to wonder if he was sleepwalking so I stuck my foot out and he fell on his head.

"What did you do that for?" he asked.
"Quit that freaky shit, you're not living with a Satanist anymore."
"Oh sorry," he said, sitting down and going to sleep.
He'd better not turn out to be a weirdo or I'll set my big violent dog on him (I'm getting him tomorrow).

I woke up today to hear Fabian Wildman banging on my front door. He was in a wile state when I let him in, in his dressing gown and slippers. I looked at the clock, it was only half eight. I gave him a good smoke of my crack pipe and that calmed him down enough so he could tell me what was wrong.

He says he woke up in the middle of the night to see The Death Owl pacing at the foot of his bed with a sacrificial dagger in his hand talking to someone who wasn't there, not just muttering, he was having a full blown conversation and my name came up as well as Fabian's. Poor Fabian waited until The Death Owl went to the bog, then he legged it out of the house.

I asked him who The Death Owl was talking to, if he mentioned Mr. Ponti or Balkazaler. Fabian said he hadn't heard of them. I told him about the wee guy in the bowler hat. Fabian said The Death Owl always called him Boris but he was a weird wee fucker who smelt of candle wax.

Fabian asks if he can stay at mine, and much as I like him I really don't want him here. He starts crying when I say no, so I tell him he can stay here until he finds somewhere new, but I know already I'm going to have to kick him out the first time he takes my stuff to cash converters.

We go round his in the middle of the day to get his stuff. I was hoping The Death Owl would be there just so I could give him a kicking but the place was empty. There was an awful reek of sage about the place.

We got all Fabian's stuff back to mine and by the time we got it sorted and him settled in the living room (his new bedroom) we settled down for the night with a good smoke of crack.

Fabian has a vinyl record player and lots of old records. He wanted to let me hear some french guy called Jaques Brel. He said I'd like him but I think his real reason for playing him was just to help him feel a bit more at home. I said okay, then Fabian told me he wrote that Westlife song Seasons in the Sun. I really wasn't looking forward to this. But once he stuck him on it was pretty good. Some french guy who sounded really emotional about everything. He had one called Amsterdam which was all in French so I don't know what it was about exactly but by the sounds of him he'd been busted trying to smuggle some dope back with him. Living with Fabian might be okay after all. I might leave it a bit before I tell him The Death Owl sometimes visits next door.

I was in a petshop the other day. I wanted to buy a dog because I'm getting a bit weirded out by all the daemons I keep seeing on the television. Balkazaler visited me the other day and told me to watch out for the Death Owl and Mr Ponti because they were planning something nasty for me. I made him some chicken sandwiches but he only ate half of one, something about how he doesn't like cajun mustard with his meats. It's sitting blue moulding on the kitchen table.

I've decided to get a big violent dog. The pet shop didn't have any but told me there were some Kennels out the Lisnabreeny Road. I was just about to leave when The Death Owl wandered into the shop. He said to the owner that he was there to buy all their rats. I told the owner that he gases rats in his oven. He started yelling at me in tongues. The owner told him to leave, when The Death Owl wouldn't, the owner beat him into a bloody mess. I helped.

The owner told me he was a white wizard and hated The Death Owl and his lot. I told him that The Death Owl and that were planning some nasty spells for me. The owner cast a protection spell for me and I went on my way.

The Kennels out the Lisnabreeny Road didn't have what I was looking for, but I think I managed to buy myself some time.

I went home and lit up the crack pipe. I felt like watching some TV but I don't want to see any more daemons; I know what's coming.

Today I went down to the post office to cash my housing benefit. I paid my internet bill and went and got me some crack. Before that I went to Bishops on Bradbury place and got me a curry chip. Their chips are a bit rotten and greasy but it's nice to feel something slushing about your stomach after it's been empty so long (even if it's going to empty itself five minutes later).

I met Good King Thumpo while I was in there. I hate Good King Thumpo. You can tell that when the troubles was going on he was in the thick of it, breaking people's knees and all that, now it's calmed down (or supposed to have calmed down) Good King Thumpo is a bit redundant and just wanders about trying to heavy people.

He's blathering away to me about some guy he beat up outside Auntie Annie's the other night. It's mostly wee indie kids that drink in there so it's hardly impressive.

"What do you think you're looking at?" Good King Thumpo shouts at this wee spindly indie fucker.
"Nothing," the guy says. To be fair he probably was looking at Good King Thumpo because he looks like Papa Shango from WWF (clothes and all - replace the face paint with tattoos, that's why he can't get a bouncers job).
"ARE YOU SAYING I'M NOTHING? I'M GOOD KING THUMPO!" he shouts storming over.
"I'm just eating my chips," the wee indie guy says.
"No you're not; you're coming outside for a fight with me," Good King Thumpo says grabbing him by the scruff of his stripey jumper.
"Good King Thumpo leave him alone," I shout. It's not right, he's probably just some indie kid down from the Alternative Ulster offices up the street.
Good King Thumpo lets him go and walks back over to where he's getting his chips.
"Just got a bit carried away," he says, sweating heavily.
Good King Thumpo is really not right in the head, and you may think what I did was brave but Good King Thumpo is scared of me for the stupidest reason.

One night I was out in Lavery's and he was there. He started hassling me and being a dick. I kept my temper (I know I couldn't beat Good King Thumpo) and left at the first opportunity, he followed me round Bradbury Place and The Lisburn Road trying to start a fight. He took a few swings but he was so plastered they all missed. Anyway he got bored and wandered off home, only to fall over halfway and split his face open on a curbstone. He wakes up the next day and can't remember, all he remembers is hassling me and so he thinks I've done this to him.

When he came up to me a few weeks later and apologised I just said "well, if you watch your mouth me and you could get on fine." He's been dead on ever since.

The girl behind the counter is so pleased that I stopped a bloodbath in her take away I get my bag of rotten grease for free. Yummie.



Good King Thumpo yesterday. (Owner of skull unknown).

Today's my signing day. It's not that special because tomorrow I get my housing benefit and I always live off it until the dole arrives.

I hate going down to sign on.

There're two types of people who work here.

1)People who don't like their jobs and just get on with it.
2)People who don't like their jobs and act like wankers out of boredom/frustration/bitterness/insert your own reason here.

There are of course sub-categories and just because you fall into 1) doesn't mean you won't sometimes be in 2) or vice-versa.

Anyways I've two people here I hate to sign me.

1) Ms Puddinghead - Called so for her purdy-esq hairdo, except it doesn't work on her because she has a head shaped like a cannon ball. She's so category two and is always ringing up companies to check if you've really applied to them. I once gave her the number of the flirt divert on radio one, and she phoned it loads of times. They played it on the radio, it was great. Bitch cut my dole off for it though.

2) The Albino - I'd like to say he's category one because he's always pleasant up until you get him to sign you. Then he turns into Ms Puddinghead, except he's like Ms Puddinghead player 2 or something because he's so white, when he's angry he goes mildly pink like a strawberry milkshake.

Anyway I get Ms Puddinghead and she's all nasty as fuck. Asking why I don't have a job. I think she knows I do crack. Thanks to that Pete Doherty wanker now everyone knows what we look like (I've better taste in clothes, especially hats). What she probably doesn't know is that I know where she lives, and that only last summer when she was away on holiday I went round her house and put a raw steak through her letter box. When she arrived home two weeks later the house was infested with rats.

After my crack ran out I bought a pan loaf and some coleraine cheddar (sustenance is important). With the change I was able to buy some cough syrup. I sat at home swigging from the bottle. Sammy Wilson of the DUP was on TV talking about Nuclear Power and his plans for Northern Ireland. It struck me that Sammy looks a lot like a Daemon. He looks a bit like Balkazaler, except he doesn't have any horns and his face isn't red enough. It could be a disguise. I'm sure Daemons can shape shift if they want to.

I turned off the TV because it was starting to wierd me out. I went into the garden with a cup of tea. It was very rainy. I like a good rain, makes you feel fresh after it goes. I stood under the wee shelter at the bottom of the garden. Hooka came out after a while and we chatted cordially even though it was clear we're still not supposed to be on speaking terms. She said Fat Rab was out, but she still never apologised for Hallowe'en.

I asked her if Sammy Wilson was Balkazaler. She asked who Balkazaler was.
"The daemon your fellah and his wanker mate worship."
"We worship the devil," she said.

I didn't push it. Maybe Balkazaler goes under a different name to them. Maybe he wrong-named me. It reminds me of this oul guy I met in The Crown bar one night. He told me that the fourth commandment

- You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.-

is because God was known to other peoples under a different name and he didn't want them catching on.

It reminds me of this guy who I used to smoke crack with who didn't want his photo being taken. We all thought it was because he was ugly but it turned out he was a police tout. So I suppose it makes sense.

Head melting shit though. I went in and finished the bottle of cough medicine and watched Doctors.

I was wandering through town today when I bumped into my hostshot banker brother. He nearly walked past me without speaking.
"Why weren't you at The Fruitarian's intervention?" I asked him.
"Making Money," he said patronisingly rubbing his finger and thumb together in a kerching kinda way.
"Very good, see if this credit crunch fucks you up, you'll get fuck all help from anyone you miser,"
"The Northern aren't likely to go down," he smirked.
"Lucky for you," I nodded.
"Well, it was nice seeing you," he says.
"Here listen, lend us a twenty would you? I need it for crack."
He handed me a twenty and a tenner as well.
"Get yourself some toothpaste too," he said showing me his clean teeth.
I wandered off thinking I could get some cough syrup as well, it would take the edge off until my dole comes in. It was nice of him to lend (give) me the money (he knows he'll never see it again), but the last time he didn't I went into the bank and asked for a loan. They said no so I told them who my brother was and they told me he wasn't in until the day after but that he couldn't give me a load either. I threw a bottle of piss in the cashier's face and puked on the police when they showed up to arrest me. So my brother was warned he'd lose his job if I ever did that again, even though it wasn't his fault. All the same, when I need money for crack he gives me it.

Today I woke up to find a hole in my shoe. I went down to Oxfam but I didn't have enough money for crack and shoes, so I stole some trainers. When I got them home I realised they were girls. My crack dealer laughed at me. If I had another dealer to go to I'd totally shop him to the peelers.

Fat Rab and the Death Owl were up in court today for sacrificing a goat. I went down to the courthouse to check it out. The judge sat and smirked as the peelers described the dead hacked up goat in Fat Rab's house. I sat and made wanker signs at The Death Owl throughout. He drew his finger across his throat to tell me I was "so dead". I'm so going to set fire to him sometime I'm high on crack because that way I'll get off with it in court.

I think the judge is a member of the Death Owl and Fat Rab's Occult Society because he threw the case out and set them free. I was so sure the wankers were going down for this. I was pissed off. I walked home and smoked some crack and sat staring at my girls' shoes near in tears then Hooka and Fat Rab started getting down to this song all fucking night.

It isn't fair.

I stood outside the cinema for three hours waiting for Sweet Lips. Even though we agreed to meet at six, at first I thought maybe she'd gotten the viewing times mixed up but after it reached nine I couldn't kid myself any longer.

Three hours standing in the misery that is Bankmore Square in the windy, pissy cold night. I wandered up Botanic and called in on Fabian Wildman, I hoped he'd have some crack. He didn't. He's hateful too when he's coming off crack, all twitchy and scatty as fuck.

I was telling him that I'd been lonely now for a while and I'd been looking forward to my date with Sweet Lips because it'd be nice to have someone, especially at this time of year when it's so miserable. It'd be nice to have someone to feel involved with, so I wouldn't be running around all the time inside my own head all tangled up in all the crap that happens everyday and that yeah, I would like to have someone I could think about or give a shit what's happening to them. That's why I just seem to sit there all day daydreaming about Hermione Granger, and I just feel like such a sad fucker because it's not even like something's going to happen between us.

I felt I was going on a wee bit so I shut up. Fabian just sat there for a while, then he took out his flick knife and started dancing around the room all jerky and twitchy.

"You know what you need to do?" he says, "you need to stab the Ron Weasley muthafucker,"

The stupid bastard thinks I've just been talking about Hermione the whole time. He says he's read the books and that Hermione is digging on Ron and that that's why I don't stand a chance.

"Ron Weasley isn't real," I say to him. "Niether's Hermione, that's why I feel sad, I feel like a sad bastard."

"It's okay," he says, "I'd stab the Ron Weasley for you, I got your fucking back."

I'm not going to keep this up. Stabbing anyone, let alone a fictional character, isn't going to help.

I like Ron Weasley, and if him and Hermione end up together that would be cool. I get up and leave because Fabian looks like a wanker dancing round his room with his knife. I know that anytime soon he's going to put on his Zentai and ask me to play blindman's buff. I once waited until he put it on then beat the shit out of him, but I'm not in the mood.

The thing is, if Fabian did try to stab Ron. Harry and Hermione would have Ron's back, not to mention Dumbledore and Hagrid and Sirius and Neville and Luna and all the Weasley clan, and that's only scratching the surface. Who do I have? A retard in a Zentai, and some satanist neighbours. My only real friend is my crack pipe.

I just wander off home and stop along the way to get some crack.

I don't smoke it, I just sit in my room and cry while listening to some Neyo. He really hits the nail on the head when I'm feeling like this.

The Death Owl showed up at my door today with some wee guy in a bowler hat. They asked if they could come inside. I told them to stay where they were. The wee dude explained that he was from a local occult organisation and that it would be easier on everyone if I were to let them inside.

I invited them in and offered them a cup of tea. Both refused.

The wee guy explained that himself and other members of his order were unhappy with my "relations" (as he put it) with another member of the order's lady friend.

I told him that this was nothing to do with him or anyone in his order. He stood up and started acting all weird.

"Master! Master! Please let me reason with him master! MASTER!" he screamed.

The Death Owl looked all excited and kept giving me this wanky look like he was saying - "You're going to get it now."

I ran out into the hall and they followed me.

"Smite him!" the Death Owl kept shouting.

I went into my broom cupboard and came out with a baseball bat.

The wee guy dropped the act the minute he saw the baseball bat, but the bat dropped him a second later. The Death Owl started twatting about like he was doing an incantation but I dropped him too.

I battered them into a bloody mess and threw them out onto the street in a bloody heap. Then I had to go and pick up their teeth with my hands and scrub their blood off my walls and carpet.

A few hours later a big horned daemon showed up at my door. I instantly recognised him as Balkazaler. I invited him in for a cup of tea and he asked me nicely not to hit the Death Owl and Mister Ponti (the wee dude). I said okay but tell them not to be coming back round my house threatening me. Balkazaler said okay and left. It was nice to see him again. I haven't seen him since back when I started doing crack (which I'm back on by the way).

My fruitarian brother called round today. He looked weary but there was something excited about him too.

- You've got to come with me, he said eagerly, pulling me by the arm. - I want a McDonalds!

I followed him through the streets of Belfast. It was funny watching his large shambling frame all clean and clothed for a change.

He talked excitedly about how he missed meat and was looking forward to "masticating a cow". He kept repeating that phrase.

I wondered what had brought about the change in him but didn't want to ask.

I felt really happy for him sitting at McDonald's as he wolfed down three Big Macs and licked his fingers clean at the end.

It was a really good day up until he boked all over the show. Something to do with his body not being used to meat proteins. He couldn't hold it down. Poor guy. It would have been okay but he boked in some wee kid's hair and his da wanted a fight. I told him if he started anything his kid would be going home with a da with no teeth. The kid burst into tears and started screaming "DON'T HIT MY DAD!"

Poor kid, anyway we fucked off at high speed after that.

The town was full today, don't know why but it was hard to get round Belfast without people banging into you. My favourite game is to walk into people who aren't looking where they are going.

There are a few exclusions to this:

Old People, people with prams (must have child in pram), pregnant women and people with walking aids/wheelchairs.

Anyone else is fair game.

There are two types of people who walk without looking where they're going:

busy people - they know where they're going, they're in a hurry and are usually deep in thought about other things. They are the lesser of the two evils.

people who are up themselves - usually female (though not always), people who spend a lot on cosmetics and don't watch where they are going because they think people are watching them (and will thus avoid a collision).

The second kind is the funniest to walk into. Today I did it at least five times. The trick is not to knock someone flying but to give them a jolt.

This one lady started yelling at me that I should watch where I'm going and that she was a poor defensless woman and I was nothing but a brute.

This dude decided to ignore the advice of fellow junky William S. Burroughs - never get involved in a boy girl fight.

He came along all, "what you doing? I'll bust your face!" I laid him out with a kick in the balls.

Then I turned to the girl and smiled sarcastically. She hit me with the most beautiful smile I've ever seen, and asked if I'd buy her a drink. I obliged and we got along famously.

Her name is Sweet Lips (that's the only name you're getting) and we're meeting for cheapo Tuesdays at the Dublin Road. I dunno what's on, hope it's a horror!

I was totally set to go to my brother's intervention when I ran into Fabian Wildman in Botanic. I was supposed to catch the train but I was feeling hassled, so when he invited me back to his for a smoke of crack I graciously accepted.

He told me all about The Death Owl getting arrested and how he's been gassing rats in their oven as part of a spell to stop himself getting sent down. It's a bit fucked up and the worry was showing in Fabian's face as he talked and talked. I told him he should get the landlord to chuck The Death Owl out but he just shrugged. I think he's scared of him.

I caught the train late and ended up getting to my metaller brother's house wasted off my face two hours late. It was mostly over by the time I got there. My fruitarian brother was talking about how plants feel pain and saying if a dog ate our babies we'd have it put down. It was horrific.

I went up to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom but all he had was some calpol. Paracetamol is easy to overdose on so I left it alone. I bet the mean bastard cleared it out especially for me.

I fucked off after that. My hotshot banker brother (Northern since you asked) never bothered his arse showing up so it was only the metaller and Wino Jo (my oldest brother, who could also do with his own intervention) left to take care of things. I went round to the Fruitarian's house and left him a basket of fruit. I hope he's okay. Winter's coming in and I keep thinking about the guy at the end of Into The Wild. I hope he weathers it okay.

I got a call from my metaller brother today. He wants me to come to an intervention for my fruitarian brother. It really sucks because on the one hand I have to help out family but on the other I'm a little annoyed that they never held one for me when I was smoking crack all the time.

My fruitarian brother is a worry: he weighs under ten stone, and he's six foot two. None of us visit him hardly because he barely ever wears clothes. He doesn't shave or cut his hair and he looks like Jungle Barry. He just wanders about his garden hoping that pears will fall off his pear tree. It's so sad. I sometimes bring him a bag of bananas because I know he needs his potassium K. He eyes them suspiciously but I know he eats them when I go home.

The thing is I'd just like to see him get on with his life. If he even had a fruitarian girlfriend or even another type of fruit tree he might have a bit more variety in his life.

This thing is tomorrow and I know it's going to be long and awkward, having to listen to all his arguments about nature and the like, and then counter them with facts about his emaciated form.

Wish me luck.

The Hallowe'en party was balls.

It started well, with lots of slam dancing and drinking beer and everyone having good crack (not the sort I smoke in my pipe, he he). I was getting on well with Hooka and it looked like things were really going my way as we were slow dancing to Evanescence. All of a sudden Fat Rab and The Death Owl came flying in with a big "SURPRISE!" just as I was sticking the lips on Hooka.

They fucking went mental, with her screaming about how I was a sexist "just cause a woman's being nice to you blah blah blah" and Fat Rab screaming about curses and Satan. The Death Owl was wabbing it about in the background like he was doing an incantation.

Turns out the wankers got out on remand and wanted to surprise everyone.

Firstly I'd told The Death Owl to cut that shit out or I'd set more than his toenails on fire. Then I told Fat Rab that I'd met Daemons while smoking crack and wasn't scared of them, so he could do his worst. Then I looked at Hooka. She looked angry but her expression softened and she looked like she might cry. I just shrugged and walked out of the party.

They started it all up again with Rod Stewart's Baby Jane. How apt? I turned to see Hooka and Fat Rab kissing. I went home and burst into tears.