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.

Walk Like a Panther

I took my thoughts about my enemies and went for a walk down the Lagan towpath with a bottle of pink champaigne. I'm going to have to be cautious. I could get major fucked if I have to fight all my enemies at once. I made up my mind to get absolutely bolloxed and scream long into the night but all the joggers fucked it up for me. Everytime I just about started to slot into my own personal space they came prancing out of nowhere on their soon to be fucked for life knees.

After a little while they fucked off, but when they did Panther Man came sliding along the path. He's called panther man because he used to wear all black velvet (except his shoes) and sit at parties spouting platitudes like "most murders are committed in most people's minds," all while scabbing roll-ups and drinks off people. Last I'd heard he'd fucked off to Dublin for University but I think he's been kicked off his course.

He's changed. Where he used to be the sort of charming rake who could easily entice some lady to look after him financially and sexually he now dresses in roaster burnt fleeces and looks like the sort of fucker who'd come round your house to fix your tv and lift a few of your CDs when you went to make him a cup of tea.

"Tuesday Kid," he says. "Do you have any tobacco? I have some stories to share."

I told him no and that I needed to get focused for a big fight. He said to me "All fights are won before either side meets."

"Very fucking profound I'm sure," I said to him.

He slinked off along the towpath and came walking back an hour later with a black eye. He didn't stop that time.