Homeless, Like Kurt, who was deep

I'm in the house watching the Nirvana night on BBC4, or to be honest I've only just turned it on. Right at the point where they're saying that Kurt Cobain used to be homeless. Something I never knew.

I've been homeless myself, but never for long, never more than a few weeks before I found somewhere to stay. If I had to spend a few nights under a bridge or in a park or even in a casualty waiting room (like Cobain did) I always managed to get myself a sofa in someone's house, or crash out in a cupboard at a party.

The first time I spent a night out was during some shitty rioting that happens in Northern Ireland from time to time. I was coming home from a party at a friends house (I was only a teenager at the time by the way) when I heard more noise than I should have heard at that time of night in that area. I turned a corner where I could see a lot better a crowd of angry bastards charging up the street in my direction. That was my cue to turn and run like a mutherfucker, not in the opposite direction, back the way I came (at a right angle to the rioters route). I managed to get to a bridge that I had to cross on my way to school. It was in a remote part of town, and not lit, so I tucked myself under it to sleep. It was stupid for a lot of reasons. It's a bad idea to put yourself in an obscure area far the fuck away from anyone, but since the town was getting fucked up it was the best of nothing but bad options.

It wasn't the last time I slept under a bridge, or that bridge, but I hope that part of my life is over with, unless the economy sends everything to shit again, and in that case there's always cat burgling and crack.

Things You Find On The Job Centre Website

And she did accept my kinky ways. So I texted her the other night after I came home from Nanny Boo Boo's and the next day I sat at work waiting for her to text me back. Work is shit at the moment. Betty Blue is leaving at the end of the week to go back to universtiy. Kissy Boy is saying that they're going to go out long distance but I can't see it happening. I'd say Kissy Boy will fuck half of Belfast the week she leaves.

They're laying people off. The contract is having problems, they don't think it'll be renewed. The bosses are so strict. I'm behind on my stats but to be honest if there was somewhere else to leave I'd go. I keep checking the online job centre and there's fuck all but kissogram and part time scrotum lickers.

I went home via the off-licence and bought a bottle of pink champaigne. I was going to go for a long walk up out into the countryside and get pure fucked. Instead I went home and put some figure hugging spandex on. Then I heard the door. I slipped on a scabby old tracksuit over the top and went to answer it.

It was The Punchbowl Girl. She had a backpack on her shoulder. I thought it was probably full of stuff I'd given her that she was going to give back but then I remembered that what I'd given her would fill her balled fist.

"Why did you leave the party?" she asked.

"I was embarrassed at what had been said about me."

"So is it true?"

"Yes, it is," I nodded.

"Well in that case, I've stuff in this bag you'll like."

I invited her in and it turns out she had a big bag of spandex all for me, pink stuff, green stuff, blue stuff, all out of the fetish pages of your da's magazine collection in the roofspace. I'm not going to tell you what happened the rest of the evening other than to make smug sounds that teenagers do in school when they're talking about who did what to whom at the previous night's school disco (or thereabouts).

Love, oh Love, I wanna tell you how I feel about you

Hot Baby Roy didn't come back last night either. I don't know if he pulled or if something bad happened to him. I'm not sure but I'd suspect he pulled even though both are likely.

I called his phone a few times but he never answered. Instead it gave a ring and went straight to voicemail.

I sat in and watched Eurovision all evening. It was funny seeing the UK come last, they always get it so wrong. The song and the singer were just boring. I think the German entry was the best by miles and I'm going to write a clawing fan letter to the girl asking her do a show in Belfast and offering her a place to stay at mine. I think I'll be the first Northern Irish Person she gets a letter from because I went out first thing this morning. (I'd downed the rest of Hot Baby Roy's birthday vodka and sat up waiting for the post office to open). Here's a draft of it (the one I posted was much smoother but not much different).

Dear Lena

Your song is so cool, you should do a gig in Northern Ireland. You have lots of fans here (especially me and my dog). We were dancing around the living room both times they played your song and if you were to play in Belfast you could stay at my house. I was a little disapointed that you wanted a kiss from Alexander Rybak when you won but that's a good sign for me getting one of my own (is it?).

Yours

T.

We're Ruined! Ruined!

I've been lying low all week. I've been pretty depressed. I never really got depressed as a teenager much. I don't know why but it seems that I've stockpiled most of it for my twenties. Silly bastard body.

I have my reasons though, a wee nip of giggly crack and the resulting boredom and self esteem kicking that comes from realising you're not that far away from where you thought you were, or to put it in a deep way. I thought I had covered much distance but really I'd been walking in a big giant circle.

You see I need to get out of this vicious cycle (that should have been a clue!) that I'm in. I lie around on the dole feeling cool while my life crumbles around me, then I get a job I hate, then get into a bit of mess and get fired. I need to find something I like only that's not going to happen because any job that's halfway cool is snapped up by someone who's been out after it since they left school and all I get are shite jobs fucking people up (and not a bicep flexed).

Now the Tories are in (that means you Nick Clegg) the civil service in Northern Ireland is going to go to shit and that means more competition on the job market. Fuck it fuck it fuck it!

Hot Baby Roy said I should try temping just to get a view of what jobs are out there but while he says that he sits on the sofa watching suspect kids TV shows and I think he hasn't given up crack at all. I got a bit desperate last week and when he was out I went through his stuff hoping he'd some crack stashed away but he hadn't, nasty mutherfucker. Anyway I'm glad there was none because now I'm keeping shot of that stuff.

An Old Enemy Returns

This morning I went twitching out to put the bin out. The Raven Princess Spandex was standing out in the alley too, just standing there with a big white terrified face on her.

"You're very pale without your make-up on," I said giving her a dig for Hot Baby Roy, even if it was his own stupid fault he was knocked back.

"I'm still hot like butter on a scone," she said. Then she pulled a face like she knew it hadn't sounded as cool/sexy/whatever as she'd hoped.

"Yes you are," I nodded to spare the poor lady's embarrasment.

"Who used to live in this house before me and Princess Cheetara?"

"A couple of sweaty heavy metal rock and rollers."

"Were they into devil worship?"

"Not them, there were some satanists lived there before that, they once killed a goat in there as a sacrifice to satan."

Her mouth fell open and she started trembling.

"It's okay, they were harmless enough."

"This creepy bastard in a grim reaper cloak came to our door the other night and said that we had a very powerful 'grimoire' in our attic."

"The Death Owl."

"That's his name, that's his name," she started to cry and I gave her a hug.

"Listen leave it with me, I know him and I'm not scared of him. I'll find out what's going on. Don't worry about it."

I went back in the house and I'm going to light up the crack pipe. Hopefully Balkazaler will show up and tell me what's going on.

Lonely Mrs. Puddinghead - Part 2

So I've this plan to get a new job and I pop off to the job centre to find that it's full of folk wanting jobs, all the oul gang are still there but they're outnumbered by all these high fallutin types wanting work. It's not cool, except Mrs Puddinghead is well busy and really pissed off that's she's speaking to people who actually want to work for a change.

I start looking through the jobs and see there's one for a kissogram. I think this would rock for me because I could borrow Fabian Wildman's Zentai and rock out to fuck in a house full of lovely ladies all wanting kissed. I would but I remember one time spying on Mrs. Puddinghead (out of boredom) and seeing a male kissogram show up to her lonely house night after night but then one night the kissogram didn't come any more and I asked The Albino about it one time he was in a good mood and he laughed and told me that she'd been blacklisted by every kissogram company in the province because she always liked to look on their visits as dates and wanted to move their relationship to the next level but they wouldn't and how she cried and begged and bought them chocolates and expensive brandy. He laughed so much his cheeks turned a pinkish-white. Nasty bastard.

I don't like Mrs Puddinghead but that's one of the saddest stories I've ever heard. I remembered her crying the other week and I still think she's a bitch but I can't help but feel sorry for her. I think I'll just avoid her in here if I can (I was trying to do that anyway) or just recognise that her nastiness is just a reaction to the love she sees everywhere but never feels herself.

Party Down and Go Fuck Yourself

Welcome to Party Down and Go Fuck Yourself. It's a story of love, life and licking the bowl. If you're interested in crack addiction, satanism, shoplifting, heavy metal, tight spandex, Hermione Granger, smoking hot guitar solos, call centres, millies and spides, pink champagne, cross dressing, the lessons of the street, big violent dogs, cute puppies, boiled eggs, oral sex, indie music, the Lagan Meadows, Belfast, Northern Ireland, Northern Ireland's tallest building (The Obel Tower) or the possibility that Sammy Wilson MP is actually a shapeshifting demon then there's something in here for you.

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