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.

Gerard Taggart is a Thieving Bastard

Hot Baby Roy was sitting in tears at the kitchen table today. He said he'd been back to his old house to collect some nifty housing benefit cheques but there was none there. He had to go down to the housing benefit office to find out where they were. He was told that they had been sent out and that their records showed they had been cashed by a man called Gerard Taggart who had presented ID saying Hot Baby Roy allowed him to cash it.

Hot Baby Roy was furious and said that he hadn't given anyone his ID. It turned out this Gerard Taggart had only presented ID that said he was Gerard Taggart.

Hot Baby Roy was told he had to go to the cops and get a crime number and then he'd be able to get his money paid to him.

By the time Hot Baby Roy had all this the Housing Executive was closed so he now has to wait until Monday to get his money back.

I told him that this Gerard Taggart bastard once stole my housing benefit cheques back when I lived on a bedsit on the Lisburn Road. He's an old fucker in his fifties, looks like Nick O'Teen and has a face like a melted candle.

I told Hot Baby Roy I could point him out to him, he hangs around the Lisburn Road and Botanic Avenue in the early morning.

One time I followed him to Stranmillis but he sussed I was following him and hid in a phonebox. When I clocked where he was he bolted and I didn't see him again for months. If you read this and know him or where he is, tell people to watch him. He's a theiving bastard.

Those Poor Shops of Belfast

We have new neighbours. I heard them moving in yesterday. Two big sweaty metallers. When I saw them move in I was so shocked I just blurted out:

"Hello Sweaty Metallers, do yous worship the devil?"

"Get fucked you spidey ballbag," one of them said flipping me da bird.

Then I explained that I wasn't judging him it was just that the peeps who used to live there were satanists.

"Do you want your shit kicked in?" he asked, thinking I was just taking the piss more.

It wouldn't have been right to slap them around the place, because I'm sure they get people saying this shit to them all the time. I went inside. I figured I'd go round another time and introduce myself properly.

Fabian came home today in tears. When I asked him what was wrong he said that he'd caught a wee kid shop lifting and called the cops, when the cops came it was the same ones that busted him last year. The cop didn't recognise him but Fabian realised there and then what a scumbag he was.

"So you're not going to catch shoplifters anymore?" I asked.

"No!" he spat. "I'm a scumbag for thieving. Those poor shops of Belfast."

One of the chairs in our kitchen has a wonky leg. If he'd been sitting on it I'd have kicked it out from under him. But as it was he was on a sturdy seat.