Rock-a-Bye Hot Baby Roy

After coming home from Nanny Boo Boos yesterday, Hot Baby Roy came in a little while later. His face was all red and puffy, so red his hair looked blonde. I asked him what was up.

"Me and The Raven Princess Spandex are over," he said. "I suppose it never really began."
"What happened?" I asked.
"I went round there today and tried to talk to her all about my feelings, my love and how it was pure, even though it was full of sex and she acted all surprised and said she thought I was just her BFF. I told her that I'd never made my love or lust for her a secret and that she should just come round here and get in my bed. She didn't like that."
"Okay, I can see..."
"Fucking Rock and Roll Stephen has been round there with his new teeth and going over that fucking Marylin Monroe speech and she's all 'Rock and Roll Stephen has ideas.' Fuck her."
He was getting really worked up and then he pulled out a crack pipe.
"I read on your blog that you've been at it again, let's me and you have some now. Fuck girls. Crackheads together!"
I should have said no but my mouth was sore after getting a clash in it from Nanny Boo Boo. Hot Baby Roy said that he'd been wanting to do it for a long time but he thought I might kick him out. He said he was always jealous of me and Fabian Wildman hanging out smoking crack and huffing bags of glue. I told him it wasn't like that so much, only at the start.
He said that Fabian was a wanker these days anyways. He came across him one night out on Botanic and he was going to go to him and say hi but Fabian was following this drunk down the street and when the drunk started boking he through his burger in a bin and Fabian hoaked through the bin for ages until he found the burger and half a bottle of wine that was probably pish.

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.

The Best Hangover Cure and Sexy Carlos

I got pished with Fabian Wildman last night to say commiserations for my job interview going so pish and now I'm just sitting pissed off and hungover as fuck.

I tried the Rocky cure for a hangover (drink a box of eggs) and I boked all twelve all over the living room carpet. I left Battle Cat in and he licked the fuckers right up. Still I was hungover as fuck and cried because I felt so bad (the hangover and the no job), I'm sure this isn't good for me because it will dehydrate me more.

I went for a walk over to Ormeau Park and I bumped into Sexy Carlos. He was out running and I asked him what was the best hangover cure. He said "Simple, don't drink."

"You're fucking simple," I said and stuck my foot out for him to fall over, but he jumped it sprightly and ran on.

I know Sexy Carlos from when I was a member of Spirit Fitness opposite the BBC. Carlos used to sit in the sauna all night and count his chest hairs. Then go for a jacuzzi. This made me feel worse, because I used to be in alright shape, I sat on the bench and had a wee boke to myself.

I HATE WESTLIFE

I'm feeling better and I've been up and at 'em since yesterday. I went round the sweaty metallers to tell them I was excited about our next jam and about the banshee singing with us. That's when they sat me down and between them (they're hard to tell apart, and they rarely are apart, that's why I always talk about the two of them together) that they also like the banshee and don't know where I fit into the band anymore. I nearly screamed at them, no one screams like I scream, I thought but then I remembered what the banshee sounded like through the walls.

They must have seen the look on my face because they said they hoped we could still be mates and they'd still take me to rock and roll vomit parties. I told them that would be nice but to be honest I don't believe it.

I went to their toilet and pished all over the seat. Then I left, still friends.

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.

Indie Wank Boy Gets Fucked in the Mouth

I've been dying for a smoke of crack all week and today I couldn't take it any more. I went out to the bin to search for my pipe, to find that the bins had already been emptied. I went in the house and started pacing up and down the living room thinking about how I could get myself some crack and be back here and high in under an hour.

Then I went to the cupboard and found a bottle of Vodka. I thought if I'd a few slugs of it it'd calm me down. I downed it in about ten minutes and felt great for about half an hour then I boked all over the place and passed out.

When I woke up the house was empty and in darkness.

I went across the street still a bit pissed to speak to the indie dick who filmed me pishing through Hooka's letter box.

"What do you want?" he said.

I grabbed him by the throat.

"What do you think you're at videoing me with your phone you wee wanker?"

Some Razorlight rock and rollers came piling out of the livingroom.

"Let go of him bozo," they said.

"Okay," I said letting him go. "I want you to destroy that video."

He started laughing and looking at his mates. I kneed him in the balls and brought my fist up to hit him in the mouth as he doubled up.

He keeled over unconscious. His mates stood there looking worried.

"Any of you wee wankers fancy a taste?" I asked them. They shook their heads.

I went through the wee indie wanker's pockets and found his phone. I found the video on it and deleted it. Then I put it back in his pocket.

"See when he comes round," I said to his mates. "Tell him if he's made any copies he'd better delete them too, because if I find out there's any floating around I'll give him some more of the same."