Nominated

I'm just coming on here briefly to boast about being nominated for two irish blog awards. Thank you to whoever nominated me. And since I'll probably not win I'll give you the speech I'll been busting to deliver since I was first nominated back in 2009:

"I keep it real. Life on the streets is tough. Fuck tha police, fuck tha government, politicians man fuck em too. Fuck advertising companies and people who photoshop models on magazine covers. Blah blah blah and thank you to Hermione Granger for keeping me company on those long lonely nights."

I'd probably not say the half of this. I'd just mutter something about how nice it is to win and get very drunk back in my seat.

Congrats to everyone else nominated.

 If you are wondering what's been happening with me I'll give you a little bit of info:

Hot Baby Roy and Hot Firey Love Lady have moved in together (in Leeds).

I'm sharing my bachelor pad with two dogs (Battle Cat, of course, and Ma-Mutt [Good King Thumpo's dog. No one has seen Good King Thumpo since he went to make his snuff movie]).

Fabian Wildman is still doing the rounds and we see each other from time to time.

Nanny Boo Boo is alive and well.

My protege has started catering college and sometimes brings me cakes to stuff my face with.

And as for me and the Punchbowl Girl, I'll keep you guessing.

How To Hide From The Police

I went back round to Good King Thumpo's last night and no one answered. I broke in again and the place looked like it hadn't been touched (hard to tell with the mess though). Ma-Mutt was chained up outside looking hungry. I gave him some hard loaf off the sideboard and he yummed it up in a few mouthfuls. He still had a big hungry look on his face so I gave him a packet of Hob Nob's that were in a Spar bag along with 2 litres of milk that goes out of date tomorrow.

I went inside and back upstairs to have a better look if anything was different. There was a knock at the door. I snuck a look out the window to see it was the peelers. He was by himself. He knocked for ages. I crept to the other side of the house and looked out to make sure there weren't cops round there.

Did someone see me break in? Had someone else called the cops on Good King Thumpo and his nasty snuff loving ways? Or was the cop there on account of some other misdemeanor?

I moved slowly and quietly back into Good King Thumpo's bedroom and waited and watched the cop walk off. I waited for a while to see if he'd come back. Then I bolted out of the back door and ran the fuck home.

Where is Good King Thumpo?

Does Real Snuff Exist?

After the reactions to yesterday's post. I started to think that I did have a responsibility to do something. I was thinking about it all day yesterday and couldn't really sleep last night. The Punchbowl Girl asked me what was wrong so I told her. She said that she thought he was talking shit but she'd been thinking about it too.

That made my mind up for me. I woke up early today and went round to talk to him. Good King Thumpo lives in a shitty wee terrace on a street off Sandy Row. I've only every been there once years ago. I couldn't rightly remember which house was his until I saw Ma-Mutt chained up in his garden. I jumped the fence and knocked on his door. Ma-Mutt growled at me but I Crocodile Dundeed him into silence.

There was no answer from the house so I bust in (still have the knack). The place was a mess. Good King Thumpo lives on his own and the only thing in the kitchen that let you know it was a kitchen was the cooker, he didn't even have a fridge (which explained all the nasty moudly food on the work tops). What he did have was a load of half dismantled microwaves, TVs and a Motorbike. A walk round the other rooms showed the same thing. His bedroom was full of weightlifting equipment (surprisingly no signs of steroid needles) and Geoff Thompson books about how to violent maim people who are attacking you and which is the best room in the house to hide weapons (incase someone breaks in). Scary shit. But he wasn't anywhere in the house. I waited until I had no choice but to head off to work.

I'm not calling the cops, I'm not a tout. Not unless there's some evidence he's telling the truth.

Who Will You Be Voting For In Northern Ireland?

I ran into Good King Thumpo yesterday. He was out walking Ma-mutt when I was walking Battle Cat. Ma-mutt looks like a nasty bastard of a dog, Good King Thumpo probably shares his steroids with him.

Good King Thumpo said that he was out looking for some Romas to feed to Ma-Mutt. I told him there were lots of Romas down Fitzroy Avenue but that he should leave them alone.

He gave me some nasty rant about how he doesn't like them/taking our jobs/nothing I haven't heard before.

I told him I liked the Romas.

"What about the one with the wee pink guitar that he can't even play?" he asked.

"He needs to switch to tambourine but that doesn't mean Ma-Mutt should get to eat him."

"I bet you haven't seen him in a while," he smirked.

"Ma-Mutt?" I said alarmed. "What have you done?"

Ma-Mutt licked his lips and I was about to press the issue but Good King Thumpo changed the issue to the upcoming elections. He started talking about how he was going to vote TUV and that Jim Alister was a good man. I told him that Jim Alister looked like Krang from the tutrles and he said that I had no business talking like that about such a decent upstanding man.

I told him that Jim Allister always struck me as nasty hate filled wee shite and he asked me did that mean I was going to vote for IRA/Sinn Fein?

I told him that I wasn't registered to vote and he told me that I sounded just like that idiot Tulisa from the N-Dubz. I told him that the N-Dubz weren't as street as they liked people to believe. He told me that voting was a privilage and that his voice will be heard but mine will be lost in the wilderness of apathy.

This was all rousing stuff, I'm thinking of registering to vote, even if it's only to stop people like Good King Thumpo having their way. Anyone voting? Who's the goodies and who's the baddies.

I need to register and I'm going to, even if it brings the debt collectors to my door.

Good King Thumpo Has A Plan

Hangovers are becoming the norm for me, when I wake up in the morning without one I start to realise I'm not keeping up with myself. I was wandering about the lower Lisburn Road when all I heard was:

"Tuesday Kid lad, bout ye!"

I turned to see Good King Thumpo rolling up to me all happy and with a big rottweiller saying he was out to rid the streets of tramps and Ma-Mutt was helping him in the fight. It was all a bit much with my fuzzy head. I asked him why he wanted his mutt but bite the homeless and he said that he was training up the dog on tramps because no one misses them if you go too far.

Then he started to get really excited when he said that once he was rid of the tramps he was going to start on immigrants.

Then he went for a pish in one of the phoneboxes beside Charlie's coffee shop. He gave two fingers in the window and shouted "What you looking at?" at them.

Then he asked me if I wanted to go to this really high class brothel he knew about on Botanic? No foreigners apparently.

I told him no. He looked hurt and said that we hadn't hung out in ages and he'd missed our craic.

I told him that I didn't agree with his politics and he said that I didn't seem to have a problem with it when he was out breaking the other side's legs, just cause he's now into breaking black or yellow legs suddenly I'm saying it's wrong.

He said that he needs a side to belong to but he isn't the one picking the teams.

I asked him what he was talking about and he waved a copy of some shite local tabloid. Then he made his dog sniff it and told it that it would know what was tasty when it met it.

Ma-Mutt woofed excitedly and Good King Thumpo pulled his nicest face:

"I love you too Ma-Mutt," he said.