Pete Doherty Plays Belfast!!

The Indie Kid across the street threw a party last night. A kind of 'let's get the parties started' thing but later he told me (when totally pished and close to tears) that it had all been about getting some of the fine pussy across the street. She didn't show up but there was a motley cast of indie rock and rollers from around Belfast.

Rock and Roll Stephen was there, meaning business, wearing the tightest pair of women's jeans and the tightest perm and his mothers handbag. He'd a wee silver case full of rollies.

I told him he looked like he meant business and he said: "From now on things are going to be full on, with relationships and studying."

I winced and told him that I once met Johnny Borrell in Donaghadee (a lie but the Indie Kid will back me up because he thinks it's true).

For some reason Sexy Carlos was there and he was walking around bare chested with the words "Who do I trust? I trust me!" scrawled across his chest in red lipstick. A thing Rock and Roll Stephen told me he'd stolen from the Manic Street Preachers, I thought it was Scarface.

I got talking to this girl at the punch bowl who told me that she was going to comit suicide when she turned twenty one. I asked her what age she was and she said nineteen. I told her that she should extend it to twenty five because after school and uni there's a lot of fun to be had lying around on the dole playing computer games and smoking crack (if that's your thing, it's not mine any more).

She told me that what I'd just said was profound. I smiled like a dog who's just realised it can lick it's own balls. I pretty much talked to her the rest of the night giving out half-wisdoms which she pretty much lapped up like a cat who'd been left out a bowl of milk by people who aren't it's owners.

Rock and Roll Stephen nearly spoiled it by bringing out a guitar and shouting:

"Who says Pete Doherty can't come to Belfast. Rock and Roll Stephen brings Pete Doherty right here!"

Then he started playing some Pete Doherty but no one really listened. I was glad when he fucked off home in tears.

Giving Fabian the Summons.

I hate the fucking Jonas Brothers, and when I discovered that the wee wanker across the street had started dressing like one of them and has had his hair permed I could have stormed over there and asked for Johnny Borrell's autograph back, even though it's fake (oops!)

Just then Fabian Wildman came down the stairs. This was the moment of truth. I gave him the court summons. He asked me what it was. I mumbled something and couldn't bring myself to say it. You see Fabian Wildman has criminal convictions and he's liable to get some time for what he did, even if it's only a few months. At the very least he'll get a big fine and a suspended sentence.

He looked really worried.

"I'm going to get really fucked over this," he said, he looked like he was about to cry. "Did that bastard bring it round."

"I'm sorry I went round your old house to kick his fuck in but he wasn't there."

Then he looked down at the court summons and started to laugh. I thought he'd went coco bongo for a minute.

"It's not for me," he said, seeing the surprise on my face.

"What?" I asked.

"This isn't my name," he chuckled. And then I looked closer at it (and without revealing his real name) they'd addressed it to (the equivalent of) Fabien Wildmen.

"That won't get you off," I said in disbelief.

"Sit back and watch," he said. "But don't really, I'm going to wait til a few days before the court to let them know."

Jammy bastard. I hope this works for him because if it doesn't the only logical option he has is to move house again and that would suck.