Monkey Flu Comes To Belfast

Today I woke up to screaming, it was different screaming to Fabian Wildman's sex screams. I went running downstairs to find it was Fabian Wildman. He was standing in the kitchen with his hand under the cold tap screaming and crying.

"What's wrong? Did you burn yourself?" I asked.

"No!" he screamed. "I've been infected with Monkey Flu!"

"You mean swine flu?" I asked recoiling from him like I would from granny porn.

"NO! MONKEY FLU!"

"What's monkey flu?" I asked.

"You get it from eating beige foods!" he squeeled. "It makes you shit and piss yourself turn about and then you die,"

"Beige foods?" I asked wondering why he'd his hand under the tap.

"You know buns, pastries, all that shit that tramps eat, now one of the fuckers has bit me! Fuck those gypsy bastards down castle street! I only reached into his tin looking for crack money!"

"Maybe if you did an honest days begging instead of stealing you'd have the money now instead of monkey flu, which by the way sounds like a load of balls to me."

"You'll be sorry when you find me dead!" he squeeled running up the stairs in a wild panic. He locked himself in the toilet and he's been there ever since.

Begging in Belfast

I was sitting begging in town yesterday when Foosted Wotsit Head asked me for change. I told him that I was doing my own begging and he should go find a pitch of his own. He went down the street and sat on the opposite side of the road.

I felt bad for him because in a way begging for me is slumming it: I'm well enough kept on the dole.

At about lunch time I had enough for two three litre bottles of cider so I went and asked him if he wanted to go for one, my treat.

We went and sat out the back of Queen Street and he told me that he hasn't seen Wino Jo in ages and that even he's starting to get worried about him.

The last any of us saw of Wino Jo was Christmas and he's been away longer so I think he was just making conversation.

When it got dark we managed to bust into a building and sit in the stairwell. Foosted Wotsit head said he used to go to parties here but they kept getting busted by the cops so they stopped having them.

I left him and went home. I gave him a tenner and told him to get himself into Garmoyle St for the night because a stairwell was no place to sleep.

Then I went home and had a chilled evening in the house with Battle Cat and Fabian Wildman. Betty Blue called round late in the evening and her and Fabian disapeared up the stairs with a bowl of boiled eggs.

I sat and told Battle Cat that I was going to give up crack and begging and me and him could go out for more walks. He smiled at me, even though dogs don't smile.

So Cold in Belfast

Our boiler stopped working yesterday. I called our Landlord about it ready to rant at him because the guys he keeps getting to fix it are cowboys. The only thing that stopped me was Margo, Margo sounds exactly like her from the Good Life, except with a west Belfast accent. I think she's from Andytown. Anyway, if the landlord says something will be fixed on Monday it will not. It may be fixed by Wednesday, but it'll more likely be Thursday and even then it'll break on Friday. For some reason if Margo says something will be fixed by Monday it will.

I haven't managed to get Margo on the phone for the past few months so it was really good to get speaking to her today. She always has a good speak for me and after she asked if I'd any more trouble with my bath (see sometime last year) I ended up blurting out all about Hooka. I started blubbing away, saying that it was awful living beside her and Fat Rab and asked if they were tenants and if they were could she have them evicted because they killed a goat at Hallowe'en and she broke my heart last week.

It was hard to keep it in about all that other stuff like begging and fighting and Battle Cat because those things are big no nos (especially pets). It's just that, much as he means well, Fabian Wildman is always telling me I'll get over her and that I need to cheer up but I really just want someone to say that it's okay to be down about it and listen to me offload. I'm not sure Margo was the best person because after I'd finished crying there was a big silence and she went:

"okay I'll get your boiler fixed by Thursday."

Then she hung up.

I hope we don't get kicked out.

Good King Thumpo and The Indie Rock and Rollers

I bumped into Good King Thumpo earlier. He was wandering around Shaftsbury Square pished out of his face. He was blabbering on about being hard and kicking the shite out of people and the usual. I was plastered too and it only put me in the mood to go home and kick the shite out of Fat Rab. Good King Thumpo was kinda hard to follow because not only was he slurring his words he was also jumping from topic to topic. He started blubbing and singing wee bits from Suzanne Vega's Luka and some song about "ma wee babay" he looked to be near collapsing.

Then a car drove past playing this happy hardcore classic



Good King Thumpo took his top off to reveal his heavily tattooed, roid addled torso and started dancing all buck mad. I felt so shit I joined in (I kept my top on). We got into this cool thing where we stood opposite each other and had our hands interweaving as we raved like a bunch of cool dudes.

Some indie kids gathered round for a chuckle so we slapped the fuck out of them. We didn't draw blood so it was okay. Like typical indie kids they burst into tears and I think one wet himself.

Good King Thumpo felt much better.

"Nothing better than knocking those wee pish flaps about," he said tearing into another can.

I went into a phonebox and sobbed for a good half hour. Then I sat on the street and scrounged for a bit, something I've never done before but I figure it might become a handy skill to have what with this credit crunch.