The Suicide Diaries

The Indie Kid came to my house this morning. He was lucky to catch me because I didn't have to be in until twelve. He had on his best Pete Doherty kit and an acoustic guitar by his side. He tipped his hat and said:

"Mr. Tuesday Kid, I'd sure appreciate it if you'd take my moleskin jotter and keep my dreams alive somehow."

The wee skittery notebook had "The Suicide Diaries" scrawled across the front of them in tippex.

"Are you going to top yourself?" I asked him.

"Naw, it's just poems about my life, and sure isn't life just suicide in slow motion?"

"Not really, no, why are you giving them to me?"

"I have to go back to live on my dad's farm now Uni of over, and I always thought there'd be some wee lassie I could give my poems to and say there's one in there about you but thon never happened and so I have to go back to milking coos and all that shite. Wee ladies down round Banbridge aren't really into poetry."

"What do they like?"

"Fighting and calling folk cunts," he said. By the look of him I'd say he isn't too hopeful about his ability to do either.

"I'll keep your songs alive," I said. "When I'm drunk down by the Lagan I'll sing them to the wind."

He pulled this face like I'd just said something wanky but I only did it to give him an indie kid moment. He sauntered off with a tip of the hat whistling an old Libertines tune.

I flicked through "The Suicide Diaries" there's not one thing I like, even all the stuff about the smoker. I'll put a few of them down here from time to time, but I haven't picked out which one makes me laugh the most yet.

More Pain

I felt it was a bit warmer last night, so I walked down by the Lagan as if I was going by Jordanstown. All the way out past the back of the markets, down past where the Obel Tower still hasn't been finished and on out past the Seacat terminal.

There was a cold breeze blowing in off the harbour and I sat and squinted out into the distance at the cranes, wondering who goes out there to work with them and how somewhere not so far away from a city be so desolate.

I pissed myself to keep warm and downed my drink quicker so I could pish more. It won't matter, I was washing the trousers that night anyway.

There was no rain or snow and I wanted some.

I went back to my house and had a long bath. I let it go cold and filled myself another one. Then I huffed some felt tips to make me feel sleepy and went to bed.

How to Know if Your Balls Have Dropped

I'm stuck in an endless conversation. I don't know where it began or what it's about or even who it is with. Or even if my contributions are all that relevant.

I spend my mornings before work sitting at the Masonic compasses at custom house square staring out over the Lagan at the Odyssey Complex. Thinking about goths and satanists, and crackheads and alcoholics, and my puppy dog that depends on me, nights of smokin' hot heavy metal rock and roll vomit parties and if I'll ever get them back? and if I'll ever get out of the call centre before it shuts down anyway? And if I do will I get somewhere I want to go? And will I ever get a sweetheart of my own before I too turn to stone?

The little bit of okayness I gained from sneering at Captain Cool Bastard has trickled away like the last dribble of pish on the toilet seat the morning after a humungus bender.

I can see it, there's something of what I loved still there but I don't want it back, because it would't be enough.

A Visit From The Raven Princess Spandex

It seems that talking Battle Cat for a walk on a pish freezing cold night and doing some good deeds along the way have made me sick. I'm lying in bed supping hot whiskey and milky broth.

The Raven Princess spandex was round and even though she wasn't here to see me it made me feel good having a sexy woman in the house while I was sick. Actually, I was a bit annoyed, why didn't she even stick her head upstairs and say hello, or aw sorry you're poorly? Why?

It's not really fair. If I'd have been at that party I'd have kung-fu flipped all the baddies out the window but all Hot Baby Roy has to do is get bitch slapped and he's someone girls sit round thinking about while listening to Mariah Carey. This isn't fair.

She was laughing and giggling away with him downstairs, and then he went up into his room and had a wank. I could hear it jingling.

I'm going to sleep for a bit.

Things better start looking up soon.

Don't Let Sammy Wilson Take Charge of the Province!

I had to go for some first aid stuff for Hot Baby Roy, it's the least I could do, especially since Wino Jo was shaking his head and cackling to himself. Ungreatful fucker.

I took Battle Cat for a bit of a dander because snow or no snow, he needs exercise. Once we were out in it it was baltic but we struggled on and made it down to the Lagan. It was frozen and the snow was lying on top of the ice. We birds were landing on it and waddling about.

Some kids were going to go down onto it but I told them not to because the ice mightened be that strong and they'd have fallen through. That's my second good deed of the day done.

The newspapers were plasted with all the Robinson scandle and rumour has it that Sammy Wilson might take over if Robinson goes, and not Nigel Dodds. This is worrying. I used to get visits from a daemon that looked like Sammy Wilson, and I'm not sure it wasn't him!

If we have a daemon in charge I'm getting the fuck out of here before Northern Ireland starts looking like the cross between a snuff movie and ghostbusters.

Don't say you weren't warned.

How to Become a Dirty Old Man - Step One

Me and Battle Cat were down seeing Nanny Boo Boo today, she's always really happy to see us and I did some more stuff round the house for her. I never really fancied myself as a handy man so I'm a bit surprised at how I know to do some of the things. Anyways we were coming back along Stranmillis Embankment when we ran into Hot Baby Roy again. There was no boat race on today, or if there was it was finished, but he was standing there anyway smoking a shitty role up and looking a bit hungover.

"They should put some benches here," he said.
"I suppose," I said, it wasn't a good conversation starter.
"You've put on some weight since you've quit the crack," he remarked. He's looking far fatter than me these days.
"Let's me and you sit on a seasaw and see what happens," I said to him.

He looked a bit hurt by this and rubbed his tummy, while wincing.

"It's so cold, even though the weather is good," he said shaking his head.
"Are you on felt tips?" I asked.
He shook his head, and said he felt lonely.
I felt a wee bit sorry for him. He's a dirty fucker but I know how he feels.
"Here look at this coming," he said perking up. I turned to see a wee thing coming bouncing up in the distance wearing pop socks and a short skirt and belly top. She was too far off to see her face.
"She's either underage and hot, or legal age and ugly as fuck," he said smacking his lips greedily.
As it turned out she was about thirty and a brute boot, so he was at least half right.

"Come on Battle Cat, it's getting dark," I said, even though it was only about five o'clock. I think Hot Baby Roy knew what I meant.

Foosted Wotsit Head is Running Scared

I went looking for Foosted Wotsit head today because I was supposed to be taking him to a hypnotist to find out about his violent dreams involving my missing brother but he was also no where to be found. I asked around and the last anyone saw him he was wandering around Sailor Town telling people that he needed a ride out of town, and some fat bastard truck driver apparently gave him a ride to Lisburn and no one's heard from him since.

Battle Cat was also out enjoying woofing and pissing and shitting in the Lagan Meadows when a man told me he'd arrest me for it, it was a big hard lump of shite so I kicked it in the Lagan. He said that would do no good that he'd be fining me for this. I told him if he was going to fine me I was going to let Battle Cat bite people and said he'd have the dog put down. I asked him if he'd like to be my friend because the only reason he could be such a wanker was if no one had ever been his friend and he said that he had all the friends he needed, he just liked being good at his job and I told him that I believed in civil disobedience and that if he wanted to give me a fine he didn't know my name or address and if he followed me home I'd have no choice but to follow him home and he'd not want me knowing where he lived because he wouldn't sleep a wink at night and for good reason and that I'd put a rat in his letter box or a poisonous snake in the middle of the night and he'd need to use his commission from the fine to pay to get ride of them or ask a friend to suck the poison out of his ball bag when the fucking thing bit him mutherfucker.

He walked away in tears. I shouted fuck the system but then I realised he might have called the cops and I ran like a mutherfucker.

Be true cause they'll lock you up in a sad sad zoo

Fabian seems to have really taken to his new found employed status with the same ferocity he took to being a crackhead. In other words he's come home every night this week talking about "lazy dole scum bastards" and wee kids in the shop that he knows are shoplifting and how if he catches one of them stealing he's going to nail their hand to whatever they're stealing and boot them out of the shop on their arse. I think he was high on felt tips when he said it but that's no real excuse.

I've been taking Battle Cat for walks down to the Odyssey Arena. He likes the picture on the underpass of the bear wanking and giving the fingers but I keep telling him it's a shame he's not human because if he was then we could go in for a boogie on a friday night and maybe get a woman or two.

For now though we just sit and stare across the smelly Lagan at the Masonic compasses on the far bank.

A storm is coming.