Work is Making me a Mutherfucker

I've been all stressed out because of work. Sex with The Punchbowl Girl helps out but I'd like to get back to when I have time off wandering about Belfast having fun and doing the odd bit of shoplifting.

I was talking to Hot Firey Love Lady when her and Hot Baby Roy were sitting downstairs indulging in some pre-pseudo-incest romance food (a nice meal on the sofa watching Jo get evicted from Big Brother to the rest of you).

She was saying that she liked her work and she was being all positive about the mutherfuckers on Big Brother (I haven't really been watching it but I like the graffiti dude). I think the difference in our points of view comes from work. I like drawing a wage but the difference between me and her is that she manages a cafe, so she has a bit of authority but more than that when people come into her cafe they're there to get something they want and generally have a nice time relaxing. When people call the call centre they're calling to scream mutherfucker at me (which they often do).

It's getting so that I think people are at heart wankers, she sees people as nice because when they come into her work they're nice.

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.

My Protege Teaches Me

I took the Death Owl's money and went and bought a bottle of wine and sat down at the Lagan Lookout at Stranmillis.

I couldn't believe I was here on my own, with no job and pish all money. How the fuck had this happened?

How had I not found a job? or why wasn't I living somewhere nice? Or had a girlfriend? Cunts like the Death Owl seemed to be winning why I was a busted loser.

My protege came and found me. He told me he wanted a new lesson.

I asked him what could I teach him? In truth I'm a terrible teacher, and that's usually okay for my terrible students (he's not the first I've given knowledge to) but it wasn't okay for him.

He told me he thought I was badass and that he could learn how to be cool from my coolness and he knows that I've made mistakes and that's cool because he wants to learn from them too.

"Okay," I said. "Here's your last lesson: do as I say, not as I do," then I boked all over myself and burst into tears.

He gave me a hug and told me I was a great role model because I taught him that it was okay to cry if you were a badass.

A big snotter came out my nose. He didn't mention that.

I'm in Love with a Fairy Tale

Fabian Wildman and Betty Blue watched Eurovision together the other night, I didn't because I hate it. Fabian Wildman has been in a bad mood ever since about the Norwegian entry (which won, and which I'm not going to show here because it's balls). Anyways, I caught him talking on his mobile this morning to some Norwegian holiday firm asking them if they would give him the wee bastard's address, just to send "hate mail" he winked at me when he said this and showed me his balled fist. They hung up on him.

I told him about getting kicked out of the band. And how I've just been sitting round the house licking my wounds and wanting to lick the bowl. He agreed, he says he loves to lick the bowl. I told him I felt hurt by the sweaty metallers and that I'd thought we were friends. He gave me a sympathetic look and asked if I wanted a smoke of crack. I told him no. I told him I wanted to get a job. He told me that I needed to be careful because the work almost destroyed him and it was crack that helped him get his life back on track. I told him that being a crackhead wasn't the same as having your life back on crack. He just rolled his eyes and boiled some eggs.