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.

No New Buddies :(

The work do was a total wash out. That means it was the first and only piss-up after the first week of training before everyone starts thinking everyone else is a ballbag.

Kissy Boy didn't go to it so I was left making conversation with the rest of them who to be fair all seem terribly nice and straightforward people. I started feeling that maybe I was to them what Hoors Bastard and Captain Cool Bastard were to me.

Betty Blue was there and I wanted to get speaking to her but she was fairly quiet and left after one drink. I thought of going outside to say hello but I got the feeling she was trying to avoid making eye contact with me in the pub so I left her alone.

I left after the second drink and politely tip-toeing my way through intense but boring conversations about the World Cup and the last Big Brother. I told one guy that England didn't have a hope and he looked at me like I'd just offered him a tape of his ma spooning shite in her mouth like it was chocolate mousse and she was a Chambourcy hippo.

"Oh yeah? We'll fucking see about that," he said before fucking off to the toilet.

And that was the only swear word anyone said all night. And it sounded so unnatural coming from him, like he'd only ever seen the word written down.

I went to an offlicence and got a bottle of whiskey wine and went and sat down where the Scabby Nettle Gang used to sit. No one was there, they're either all dead or dried out and in old folks homes. There's just me, moping around like some old man whose buddies all died in the war.

Talentless Celebrity Hack Bastards

I was walking down the Lagan tow-path today with Battle Cat when I came across more writing on the ground. It was a note pad which said Property of O_________ McA________ celebrity columnist! On it.

It was full of scrawlings about how much she wish she had been a fuck flap with a wine bottle while on TV instead of the other burd (her words not mine). there was a bit X through the scrawl and a cheeky reminder saying "don't write while cunted up on red wine".

I let Battle Cat pish on it then I kicked it into the Lagan. I took aim at the malards because they bully the smaller ducks. Motherfuckers.