Thursday 21 October 2010

That's all folks!

Yesterday was my birthday and it started me thinking about it being time to wind the blog down. I've a lot going on in my life at the mo and the blog isn't so easy to keep up.

I've been at it two years now and it's been great. I've went from being a sad crack head who was secretly the coolest dude in town to everyone knowing just how mutherfucking cool I can rock. I've played electric rock and roll guitar solos, talked to daemons and kissed lots of sexy girls.

I've enjoyed massive support from the rest of the blogging community, particularly the Northern Irish blogging community. I'm not saying this is it for good but for now that's me.

Thanks for reading, I might post on here from time to time so it's not a total goodbye but if you do want some other good blogs to read in the meantime there's plenty listed down the side there.

Monday 18 October 2010

Post Sex Sex Face (What the fuck that means?)

What a shite week I've had. The Punchbowl Girl is actually away for two weeks so she'll miss my birthday. Fuck that.

I've sat round the house wondering how to avoid conversations with Wino Jo about how he's fallen off the wagon and when he's going to get back on it and get the fuck back to wherever he was before I found him in a bin.

I've just been staying late at work and hating it too. They've lost a few contracts and it's us dicks on the floor that are getting the blame for it. We've been told no reading at the desks, no eating sweets from the machine, no fuck all.

One of the bosses walks up and down the floor glaring at people like he's cock of the walk even though his cock probably doesn't work any more. I'd love to have him a street fight; I'd destroy him, it's be so great watching him trying to throw the digs and getting wasted everytime he'd thought he'd connected.

Speaking of kickings I can't wait to get my hand on that cunt Mother of Bowling Ball.

Thursday 14 October 2010

That Kicking Didn't Go According To Plan Then

It was such a simple plan; I had his address and I was on my way round to Mother of Bowling Ball's to give him the kicking of his life.

Instead I spend last night sitting in casualty.

I left work early complaining of having a dicky tummy, which was a complete lie. I was fighting fit. I went home to do some press-ups (not too many because they tire you out, just enough so I'd be all big and fearsome looking). I took no weapons with me; this was going to be a clean street brawl. I thought about texting Hot Baby Roy so he could come and watch, maybe even lay a few digs in while Mother of Bowling Ball was flat on his back crying. But no, Hot Firey Love Lady would try to stop me, this was going to run as smooth as Barry White sliding out of a fridge.

On the way over I did a Rocky Run and thought maybe some street kids would run along with me because they knew I was the champ. I stopped just round the corner from the house to get my game plan together. I was going to have to knock the door, storm in when it was opened and slam it behind me. If it wasn't Mother of Bowling Ball that answered the door I was going to have to tear the place apart to find him.

There was a sound coming from inside a bin like a dog had a toothy accident when licking it's balls. It was distracting me and I needed focus. I opened the lid to see Wino Jo in there with a big yellow face half hiccoughing, half screaming.

"Wino Jo? What the fuck are you at?"

He couldn't remember. He banged about inside the bin until it fell over, then he crawled out and boked all over the alleyway.

He's off the wagon then. Worse than that he'd been drinking Turgenev (vodka and Berroca) all day. Bad fucking move. Because Berroca is full of vitamins you're only really supposed to have one glass of the stuff. It gives you a nice kick if you're trying to keep a bender going but no way should you get drunk on it.

The Turgenev left in the bottle was the colour of a happy horses pish (yellow - not clear). I took him to the city hospital where we had to wait for hours to get seen. I kept getting water into Wino Jo and making him go to the toilet to boke. By the time we were seen he was a complete mess but he was past the worst of it. The doctor just sent us home and asked me to keep an eye on him.

Yes he's back at mine, he's off the wagon. I don't know how long either is going to be fore but I hope both are not long.
It was such a simple plan; I had his address and I was on my way round to Mother of Bowling Ball's to give him the kicking of his life.

Instead I spend last night sitting in casualty.

I left work early complaining of having a dicky tummy, which was a complete lie. I was fighting fit. I went home to do some press-ups (not too many because they tire you out, just enough so I'd be all big and fearsome looking). I took no weapons with me; this was going to be a clean street brawl. I thought about texting Hot Baby Roy so he could come and watch, maybe even lay a few digs in while Mother of Bowling Ball was flat on his back crying. But no, Hot Firey Love Lady would try to stop me, this was going to run as smooth as Barry White sliding out of a fridge.

On the way over I did a Rocky Run and thought maybe some street kids would run along with me because they knew I was the champ. I stopped just round the corner from the house to get my game plan together. I was going to have to knock the door, storm in when it was opened and slam it behind me. If it wasn't Mother of Bowling Ball that answered the door I was going to have to tear the place apart to find him.

There was a sound coming from inside a bin like a dog had a toothy accident when licking it's balls. It was distracting me and I needed focus. I opened the lid to see Wino Jo in there with a big yellow face half hiccoughing, half screaming.

"Wino Jo? What the fuck are you at?"

He couldn't remember. He banged about inside the bin until it fell over, then he crawled out and boked all over the alleyway.

He's off the wagon then. Worse than that he'd been drinking Lord Byron

Tuesday 12 October 2010

Mother of Bowling Ball is in for The Wildest Kicking After I Finish Work

Today in work I realised I'm the only one left from when I started. The Punchbowl Girl was fired, Betty Blue is back at Uni, even Kissy Boy has fucked off.

I just sit at my desk and try to pass the time being ruder to rude customers.

Funnily enough today I was on the phone to a particularly rude bastard who I call Mother of Bowling Ball. He didn't recognise my voice and started screaming about how our customer service was crap and how he'd come down to the call centre and bust our skulls. I politely calmed him down and talked him through everything I was going to fix on his account (none of which I did - he's so fucking screwed when his next bill comes in).

At the end of the call he slammed the phone down after making a passing dig about how he'd better not have to call us back. I took out a piece of paper and scribbled down his address. I'll be making a wee visit to him after work just to see if he wants to talk tough then.

Get ready for some kung-fu.

Thursday 7 October 2010

On My Own Again

So last night the Punchbowl Girl sits me down and says she wants to talk about us.

This sounds bad but instead of bursting into tears and screaming "no this isn't fair," I say. "Sure what's up."

She says that we've been having a lot of fun and she wants to know if I'm just hanging out with her or if I'd like her to be my girlfriend.

I tell her that I thought it was a given we were boyfriend and girlfriend especially after the whole spandex thing and she says no.

Then I say that I'd like her to be my girlfriend very much.

Then we kiss and it's all looking like it's going to be a happy ending until she tells me that she's off tomorrow for a week long holiday with her family.

Then I burst into tears (I don't really but it's funny because it refers to me doing something I thought I was going to do earlier but didn't do). I huffed a wee bit because the truth is I'm going to miss her while she's away.

I'm turning into a sappy boy. Oh dear.

Wednesday 6 October 2010

Tramps Beg For Change On The Streets! Leave Me Be!

It's funny that Hot Baby Roy seems so developed these days (even though disaster threatens to rear its head at any minute). He was always the one out of us that I thought was the one you could depend on to be doing worse than you. I think maybe Fabian Wildman thought that about me, but I've a shit job and a great girlfriend so I've gained a lot more than I started with at the beginning of this blog.

Even though he's meant to be getting off crack for good I thought Fabian Wildman was the one person I knew who had really let themselves go. That was until I came across Panther Man the other day. He was sitting down the back of Queen Street drinking scrounged up cider with Foosted Wotsit Head. I remember he used to wear black velvet and slink around the place giving out faux/obvious wisdom to all the banal fuckers who'd lap it up. It wasn't a bad racket, certainly better than scrounging up change.

They asked me if I'd some money for Buckfast because then they could make Solzenicyn.

I told them there was no cider in Solzenicyn and they gleefully waved a bottle of brown lemonade at me.

There was a time I'd have sat and joined them, another I'd have mugged them for their coppers and silvers, this time I shrugged and walked away down the street.

Am I turning mean? I guess Bowie knows.

Tuesday 5 October 2010

Hot Baby Roy is Gainfully Employed

Hot Baby Roy has now a job for the first time since I've known him (nearly two years). I worked. Hot Firey Love Lady gave him a reference bundled with fucking lies and they sucked it all in. Now Hot Baby Roy works in management. I can now tell you something I didn't want to previously tell you about him because it makes him sound like a scumbag. It doesn't anymore though, because he now has a respectable job.

Hot Baby Roy's first employment was as a postman. Hot Baby Roy was not the proverbial Pat, waving hello to the neighbours and doing them a good deed to help the community. No, Hot Baby Roy used to rifle through the bag for anything that looked like money (dole cheques, birthday cards etc) then he'd dump everything else into a bin and fuck off to the off-licence. He'd be sitting plastered on the bus home by eleven o'clock, staring bug eyed all round him hoping no one touted on him to the Post Office. He said that once he boked all over the old people seats at the front and that maybe someone thought that was too far because he was sacked soon after. It wasn't an old person though because any of them who sat on it probably thought it was thick pish coming from their out of control bladders.

Or so he says. I'm on the side of any old person who sat on it. I once pished myself on a bus so I know the shame some poor old fucker felt, and it not even their mess.


    The Opposite of Hot Baby Roy (except for them being both ginger)

Sunday 3 October 2010

I Only Want To Party With My Baby

It was Betty Blue's leaving do last night. Me and The Punchbowl Girl showed up nice and early because we weren't going to stay long. The Unicorn Girl and Clarence were there and for once Clarence wasn't being the biggest pishflap there. He actually made himself scarce after he saw me because he knows I'm going to boot him a new arsehole for what he did to Hot Baby Roy.

The Unicorn Girl was making catty shitty remarks to and about The Punchbowl Girl, nothing overt, really dickish shit about her getting fired, said in that kind of I'm nice and friendly but saying shit.

Betty Blue and Kissy Boy took off upstairs to fuck early on in the night so me and The Punchbowl Girl fucked off with our beer and a few bottles of wine that belonged to someone we don't know or care about.

We fucked off home where it we had a better party on our own.

Since the last post it hasn't all been a blur of hot spandex (though that has featured). In other news:

Pearl Jam 10 is the best grunge album (I've learned this after an intensive week of grunge).

There should be a second series of This Is England 86 (there fucking better be).

Will the road works outside Primark ever be complete?

A man can find some great clothes in a charity shop but he needs a woman with him.

Ed Balls has a defective nose.

This website makes me laugh lots and lots.