Gerard Taggart is a Thieving Bastard

Hot Baby Roy was sitting in tears at the kitchen table today. He said he'd been back to his old house to collect some nifty housing benefit cheques but there was none there. He had to go down to the housing benefit office to find out where they were. He was told that they had been sent out and that their records showed they had been cashed by a man called Gerard Taggart who had presented ID saying Hot Baby Roy allowed him to cash it.

Hot Baby Roy was furious and said that he hadn't given anyone his ID. It turned out this Gerard Taggart had only presented ID that said he was Gerard Taggart.

Hot Baby Roy was told he had to go to the cops and get a crime number and then he'd be able to get his money paid to him.

By the time Hot Baby Roy had all this the Housing Executive was closed so he now has to wait until Monday to get his money back.

I told him that this Gerard Taggart bastard once stole my housing benefit cheques back when I lived on a bedsit on the Lisburn Road. He's an old fucker in his fifties, looks like Nick O'Teen and has a face like a melted candle.

I told Hot Baby Roy I could point him out to him, he hangs around the Lisburn Road and Botanic Avenue in the early morning.

One time I followed him to Stranmillis but he sussed I was following him and hid in a phonebox. When I clocked where he was he bolted and I didn't see him again for months. If you read this and know him or where he is, tell people to watch him. He's a theiving bastard.

Bye Bye Hoors Bastard and Fuck You to the Dole

Hoors Bastard started a conversation with me about music. I told him that I liked hip hop and R and B and he started all this shite about how I must be gay because Techno was the only thing that real men listened to.

I told him that he was sum craic and he had a big happy grin pasted all over his wobbly fat face all day, right up until our trainer told him he'd balled up his last test and he was out of the game.

He sat in the reception crying and told the trainer he'd get his da to come up and slap him on the bake. I'm glad to see the back of the fucker. Him and his sum craic and his happy hardcore collection. He'll need it now he's back on the dole queue. Speaking of which I went down there and asked for my £300. You see if you're on the dole for 6 months and then you get a job they'll give you £100 and the housing will give you £200 until you get your first wage. It's really a year but they're sneaky bastards about this. Anyway I had my dole cut off for two days a few months ago (long story) and because of this they say I haven't been receiving it for a whole year. Fucking bastards the lot of them. I hope Hoors Bastard turns their heads with his craic from now until they drop dead of being bastards.

Fabian Has Enough

I came into the living room this morning to find Fabian Wildman on the phone. The calls went something like this:

"I'd like to view the room in ___________"
(mutter)
"When can I view it?"
(mutter)
"I'm not working at the minute, I need housing benefit."
(mutter)
"It didn't say you don't take it in your fucking advert you fucking cock."

Then he'd slam the phone down, shake his head and say "ballbags".

Poor Fabian, I know it's stressing him out that he can't find anywhere.

He's been telling me all about the overpriced shitholes he's been to see. He says they're all owned by ballbags, half the places haven't been cleaned and most of them are rotten with damp.

Sort it out ballbag landlords. Fabian needs a new place to live (but I don't want to see him go).

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.