After the reactions to yesterday's post. I started to think that I did have a responsibility to do something. I was thinking about it all day yesterday and couldn't really sleep last night. The Punchbowl Girl asked me what was wrong so I told her. She said that she thought he was talking shit but she'd been thinking about it too.
That made my mind up for me. I woke up early today and went round to talk to him. Good King Thumpo lives in a shitty wee terrace on a street off Sandy Row. I've only every been there once years ago. I couldn't rightly remember which house was his until I saw Ma-Mutt chained up in his garden. I jumped the fence and knocked on his door. Ma-Mutt growled at me but I Crocodile Dundeed him into silence.
There was no answer from the house so I bust in (still have the knack). The place was a mess. Good King Thumpo lives on his own and the only thing in the kitchen that let you know it was a kitchen was the cooker, he didn't even have a fridge (which explained all the nasty moudly food on the work tops). What he did have was a load of half dismantled microwaves, TVs and a Motorbike. A walk round the other rooms showed the same thing. His bedroom was full of weightlifting equipment (surprisingly no signs of steroid needles) and Geoff Thompson books about how to violent maim people who are attacking you and which is the best room in the house to hide weapons (incase someone breaks in). Scary shit. But he wasn't anywhere in the house. I waited until I had no choice but to head off to work.
I'm not calling the cops, I'm not a tout. Not unless there's some evidence he's telling the truth.
