The Power and the Glory

Er, hi...

It's me. You remember me? It's the NCWC. Remember? I dressed up as AIDS that time for Halloween. Yes... Quite.

So, I'm sorry. I've been a little... neglectful. I've let things go. I've been a lazy cunt. I've been on hiatus. I've been on holiday. I've been in jail.

That's not true. I wasn't in jail. Or on holiday. But I've been busy! Oh, dear me, I've been busy.

But that's neither interesting nor very important.

What is important is that I have decided what I want for Christmas. And also what I want between now and Christmas. This is the most important thing, I think, that has ever been stated. Much more important than some shitey election in America, or some cunt putting a bomb on a plane, or Wayne Rooney.

I would like, both for Christmas and before Christmas, in no order of importance:

- A book token
- Indian food
- To go to a nice restaurant
- A DVD
- Wine
- New trainers
- Crisps
- Diet coke
- A pipe
- A hat
- A jacket
- Some books
- An air-rifle
- To go to the cinema
- A Christmas Party

This is the most important thing in the world. We can then sit at the right-hand side of the Lord and be dead good and the best.

It's not a lot to ask?

And so it goes.

Nice cereal

Make a meal out of crisps.

I shouted that at a group of wee kids during break-time the other day.

I wanted to give them some wrong information.

I wanted them to have the wrong idea about nutrition, for badness, like.

It didn't work. I should have said it in French.

Plus, they mightn't have understood crisps, as the North American equivalent English word is chips.

I wouldn't have felt right saying "Make a meal out of chips", because it's a sentiment I agree with.

I did amuse myself though, and reeled away laughing and smiling contentedly.

I held on to the chainlink fence and shouted it in a really high-pitched voice, when I did it.

That was pretty good!

In other news, Mystery-Fans, I ran another half-marathon.

It was pretty tough. I didn't train enough.

I'm a fucking amazing athlete though, 'cos it still went pretty well.

I enjoy doing them.

I got a medal. It wasn't as nice as the one I got in April, so I'm mildly upset, still.

I won't let it ruin my feeling of smug priggishness, though.

I start the day with Kellogg's "Just Right".

I hate that name, it makes me feel like a cunt (which I am, let's not forget!).

"-Aye, your cornflakes look nice, but I fucking eat "Just Right", so fuck you"

It was created in the 1980s for health-conscious, athletic Australians, who are the world's third-biggest cereal eaters, apparently.

Doing a shite

Hi Mystery-Fans,

I've been kind of busy the last wee while. I was writing a play about doing a shite, but it went all wrong.

There just isn't the market these days for plays about doing a shite.

Apparently in the seventies it was all go. Shite plays left, right and centre.

Nobody wants to know these days.

It's all Unicef, Lady Gaga and organic food.

Fuck off.

My play was brilliant.

It was a play about doing a shite.

I'll not give the story away, because some cunt will nab it, and I'll be left playless.

It was turned down by everyone.

There was a bit of comedy, pathos, drama and lots of excitement.

Some people said it was the least-explicitly-about-doing-a-shite-play about doing a shite that they'd ever seen.

I said, is that a bit like Inception? Could we do something there?

They said no.

I fled to Belgium in tears like Stephen Fry did in 1995.

I was OK when I got to the airport, I wasn't even upset any more.

But I went to Belgium anyway.

It's a nice country.

It's underrated.

The Remove Passage at Greyfriars

I am fucking wrecked.

Being a da is hard work- don't let any cunt tell you otherwise.

It leads to lapses in concentration.

I was eating the other day, with a friend, and he had made some lentils with sausages. His ma made the sausages, so I was pretty eager to try them. There were two big bits of sausage in the lentils. He's a good cook, this chap. Mario is his name.

Because I'm a self-absorbed, childish cunt, I thought both were for me, so I ate the first one really quick, and it was lovely.

A wee bit later, I ate the second bit.

My mates goes, here, did you eat my bit of sausage?

I apparently did. But here's the thing- I couldn't remember doing it.

I could remember the first bit, it was so memorable. Unlike normal sausages, it was dryer and nicer.

But I can't remember the second.

I think it's due to sleep deprivation.

Still, I'm glad I got to eat both bits, if only to have deprived him from the enjoyment it would have brought him.

You see, these last few tired days, I only enjoy the satisfaction that retribution, violence or pain brings.

It's pretty good, actually.

Like a deranged batman, I've started to target the people who read the Montreal Mirror, and in particular, those whose lifestyle says to me "I am a cunt that reads the Montreal Mirror and finds it of interest".

It's fucking open season down my street.

Here's a wee example:

There was one fella today coming down the road wheeling a bike along the footpath.

Before he even opened his mouth I had the cunt pegged.

Fucking twat in a pair of braces, mad hair, brogues and t-shirt with "ALF" on it. I knew his type.

When he began to speak to his chum who was dootering along beside him on the road, his horrible English Canadian ironic monotone sealed his fate.

I fucked a chamber pit full of dog shite and sand at his head and knocked him out cold.

I got Sarah to punch him a few times while he was lying on the ground too (just wee digs, she's only wee).

We made a bit of a game out of it.

You have to keep it interesting for the wee ones.

Video Nasty

Here's an interesting story;

When I was very, very young, I worked in a bar. It was part of a hotel. I mostly enjoyed it.

I worked there on and off for about 7 years.

One day, I was working at the bar and I saw an obese gentleman with long hair and glasses.

I can't remember what we were talking about, but we got on to talking about videos. He was from Sussex.

It turned out he liked videos, and took a video player with him everywhere he went.

I think he turned the conversation towards videos, looking back.

He must have been some kind of traveling businessman.

He was drinking pints of cider and smoking cigarettes, one after the other.

He asked me did I know what a "video nasty" was.

I said that I did, that it was a sort of banned video that had a certain cult following.

He said he fucking loved video nasties, he had loads of them.

I said tell me a name of one, to see if I'd seen any.

He said "SS Love Camp", with a big grin on his face.

Fuck me.

"Is it any good?" I asked, and he went on to describe in gruesome detail all the tortures, murders and rapes that took place in the show.

"Sounds like a two thumbs up!" I said, trying for levity.

"It's pretty good" he said.

What kind of a cunt tells a total stranger such things?

People should keep that shite to themselves.

Maybe he thought I'd admire him for it. Or ask for a lend.

Later that evening, I had to bring drinks to his room, on a few occasions.

He answered the door in his underpants every time, and the room was full of smoke every time. I bet he was watching video nasties, but he must have paused them when I knocked.

He gave me a quid every time I brought him a pint of cider.

I would have given anything to watch "I spit on your grave".

Lady Binman

Lady Binman,

Beautiful and calm.

Holding on to the back of a bin lorry,

On a sunny morning.


Binmen should not look like you.

They should look like Onslow from "Keeping Up Appearances",

Obese, unshaven oafs.

Not a young black woman with short hair.


How did you get the job?

You must be as good at picking up bins as Onlow.

Wouldn't be fucking hard.

Traditional binmen are unfit.


Until I saw you, I'd never seen a lady binman,

Nor imagined one.

Except maybe a binman's wife,

Riding in the lorry for a laugh.


Everywhere you go, there you are.

Mildly surprising and pleasing.

Like learning about a music festival in Afghanistan.

I hope you enjoy what you do.

The Real Ghostbusters

I had wee Sarah all day today, on my own. Tina was out at a baby shower.

It was brilliant. I carry her about all the time, because she likes it better. She can see everything.

She loves dogs and wee kids. We didn't see any today.

Well, we saw some. No good ones, though. I think it was too hot.

It's really fucking hot here in the summer. Too fucking hot. I always get burned.

I never wear suncream. I shouldn't have to. It's unnatural. I make sure Sarah does though. She's too young to make an uninformed choice like I did.

I was pushing her about and she got sleepy, so I gave her her dummy to help her get over to sleep.

She did fall asleep, so I stopped at a bench and read the Montreal Mirror.

I'm beginning to hate the Montreal Mirror, 'cos it's full of shite. It's the same oul fucking shite every week.

The same cunty opinions, and trite news pieces, and wanky columnists. It's very right-on. I like no more than 3% of it, then I want to rip it into shreds and shite on it, screaming foul abuse all the while.

It makes me think that everyone in Montreal is a right arsehole.

I'm not wrong.

Some twat was coming along the day there, just before I went to the park, a beardy cunt with glasses. He had some other twat beside him.

The beardy cunt was explaining to the other twat about "the brown bag understanding" that exists between the police and outdoor drinkers in the states.

This is where tramps, arseholes and knobs can drink beer or wine outside, in public, without getting arrested, as long as their alcohol is concealed in a "brown paper bag" or some such thing.

This beardy cunt was excitedly explaining, in English, mind, the very notion to thon other twat as being a victory of community policing and common sense.

What a cunt. His using English merely confirmed my theory that most of the cunts, twats and arseholes in this part of Montreal are anglophones (I include myself here too, folks!).

I only caught about ten seconds of his loud conversation, but those ten seconds were enough to make me want to batter the living fuck out of him with a chair leg.

I didn't, but.

I was wild fucking tempted, though.

Montreal is full of fuckers like thon fella.

And this paper is like "The Ulster Tatler" for these knobs.

A terrible state of affairs.

Right cunts.

So anyways, I sat and read the paper while she slept, for a bit.

I thought of that fella who I'd just seen, and all the shite he was talking.

And I decided it'd be more fun just to watch two squirrels shagging each other.

So I did.

Terrific Fun

I saw a massive black beetle about 25 minutes ago.

I was walking through the park, and by the baseball field he caught my eye.

Huge big cunt, just creeping about. It certainly made my night. He looked too big to be just walking around. Maybe he didn't belong here. He might have escaped from someone's house, they were maybe keeping him as a pet.

I wouldn't.

Why would you?

Dogs are the best pets. They're like nicer people, better than people, simpler. Big dogs especially. Wee ones are cunts. They have a tendency to yap, gurn and be excitable.

Who wants that?

I'd rather have a beetle than a wee dog. If I got bored of the beetle, I'd let him go. I'd feel worse doing that to the dog. A bit guilty, because society obliges you to be nice to dogs and treat them well.

I couldn't be arsed with dogs. Sarah likes them though. She fucking loves them.

Some woman was going past with her toddler, walking beside her, and Sarah wanted to see the baby, so I hunkered down with her and showed her the baby, up close.

I gave the woman a stern, yet kind, look, demonstrating that I was showing my daughter her baby, whether she fucking liked it or not.

Chuckling, I said "Elle adore des petits enfants... et des chiens!"

I didn't realise, 'til well after, that she may have construed it as a wee jibe at her wean, implying I wasn't sure if her baby was a human or a canine.

It was a human baby, though.

I asked a priest once in primary school whether dogs and cats and insects have Jesus and the chance at redemption like we do. I can't remember his answer.

Why are we so fucking special?

It is great being a human though. I went to the zoo when I was home, and those cunts are not half as lucky as we are.

I'm reading these books by George Pelecanos, set in Washington DC, and the characters invariably eat a dish called a half-smoke. I fucking want one. I'll go all the way down there if I have to. He describes it so nice in the books.

I think it's a kind of sausage.

A gay village

I went back home for a month.

It was class.

That's why I didn't write anything, 'cos I was too busy getting up to all sorts of shite, like going to the zoo, visiting my granny, going to mass and eating crisps.

It was class, though. But I won't go into it in any more detail than that. I'd just fucking bore you. I haven't had any profound insights since I was about 11. So I'd just be relating a load of shite that happened, and you, dear reader, would find it wild tedious.

There were some things though...

Fish is tastier and more affordable at home. So is booze... And tasty foods. Everything is smaller too, in a good way.

I could fucking walk to Newcastle, if I wanted (I don't- my ma can drive me and save me the walk). But I could.

The weather was class- I got a tan. Then everyone goes "Oh, I thought you went to Ireland! But it's always raining!"

It is always raining, ya cunt. But it wasn't this time.

I did get a tan.

Wee Chub-Chub fucking loved it, she had the best time of anyone. I think she had the most fun that a human being has ever had, at any time since humans were about.

Her face was contorted in pure joy, all day long, every day. My ma and sister entertained her by shouting and tickling. That's all it takes. She's fucking brilliant.

She likes animals.

I fucking couldn't have been arsed going back to work. I bought a paddling pool for $1. It was $1.15 with tax. It's for Sarah.

I'm up for sitting in it, though, instead of working.

I'll drink bottles of white wine, sparkling white wine. And read novels. Only, though, in the moments when I'm not doing stuff, like cycling to the shops, or walking Sarah to the park. I won't put on sun cream, to maintain my deep tan.

On the way home today, I walked through the gay village.

There were loads of gays about. I still found this surprising, even though it is the gay village. It isn't even a village, it's a few city blocks. I felt exactly halfway between nonplussed and slightly surprised. A lot of them were elderly men.

And so it goes.

Shite yourself silly

I am mildly ill.

What a terrible thing it is, to be unwell!

At least you've got your health, they say. At least you've got your health.

How right you are, oul' dolls of the world! I fucking hate being sick.

For years I was immune to all manner of contagion.

I could eat my dinner off a filthy toilet seat and be none the worse for it.

I was never off work.

I successfully defeated the AIDS virus in a head-to-head (a bit like Innerspace, except I beat up AIDS with my bare hands and a hurley stick, inside myself, in the future).

I was the picture of health.

Alas, this is no longer so.

I am mildly ill, and an insufferable bastard for it.

At regular periods I make bleak forecasts about my future, mostly for my own amusement.

-Call the Montreal Canadiens to make me a "Get well message"... I've not got long.

-End the suffering!

-I don't feel well.

-Will I ride a bicycle again?

Etc, etc.

I am mildly ill.

And yet, isn't diarrhea one of the more satisfying ailments? The body expelling its attacker in a thunderous, merciless flush!

Get out, ya cunt!

It's not that bad at all, now.

Why would you even bother with that Immodium shite? Bung you up, who fucking wants that? Crane drivers should take the fucking day off if they have diarrhea.

I went to buy some, anyway. With mixed feelings, I add!

I took it to the check-out at the chemist's, and the wee man behind the counter goes:

-Diarrhea, aye?

-Yeah...

-Fucking shiting your brains out!

This was odd for many reasons, but mostly because it's all French about here, and I didn't expect anyone around here to speak like that.

It was odd too because I'd never heard anyone use that turn of phrase before. So awkward and vicious. It didn't sound right.

This was getting very like a bad dream, and so I began to snivel.

Between gasps and stammered breaths I said haughtily to myself, and to anyone within earshot, "What an odd fellow!"

-I am in the Odd Fellows!

-W-what?!

-I am in a fraternal organization called "The Odd Fellows Club"

-What?

-They're a bit like the Masons...

-Oh...

-But not as secretive! Ha-ha. Just a wee joke. We raise money for charity and that! It's good. I enjoy it, anyway.

-Good... Good. OK. Bye!

As I walked out of the shop I heard him say "So it's quite apt that you think me an odd fellow, seeing as I'm in the Odd Fellows!" And he chuckled, and chuckled.

I ran back home as fast as I could without shiting myself.

What an odd fellow, I mused. What an Odd Fellow. The Odd Fellows. How very odd indeed. His wee joke wasn't even funny, I couldn't understand how he thought it could even be a wee joke. It was just a statement.

He looked normal, even handsome. That made it worse. I hope he doesn't have a family. He's too odd. It wouldn't be fair on them.

The Odd Fellows are actively involved in a variety of civic and philanthropic efforts on a local, national and international scale, I later read.

"T-t-that's pretty impressive!" I shouted to an empty house, sitting on the bog, fucking shiting my brains out.

Will I ever ride a bicycle again?

Pear of bastards

A pear of bastards.

That was the pear I just ate.

Pears are my favourite fruit. The feel really special in your mouth. They taste a bit like nail polish. The texture is like the sand at the bottom of a fish tank.

They are the best.

They have only been my favourite fruit for the last twenty minutes. I'd forgotten all about them.

I'd say that I went through the last two years without thinking about pears at all. I'd heard the word said, but it never went beyond that.

Once recently someone said they liked pear cider, and I absentmindedly agreed. But I never thought about what it meant to like pears. It was as automatic as saying sorry when you almost walk into someone.

But now I know all about pears!

Pears are classy and timeless. You can trust someone who likes pears. Every cunt eats apples. Oranges are messy and can blind you with their acidic jets. Bananas are to be eaten joylessly to keep you going, or as part of an elaborate dessert.

But pears are very special.

Here's a true story, if you enjoy them:

Yesterday I took wee Chub-Chub out onto our porch for a look at the street. Next door there was three people outside gathered outside the stairs, around a stove on the ground. A man and two women.

Montreal is famous for its windy outdoor staircases. They are on postcards and all shite like that.

These fuckers were trying to lift a cooker up the stairs, the man and one of the woman was.

Because I'm a nice wee fella, I offered to help, if someone would hold Sarah.

I helped the man lift the cooker up the winding staircase, and a girl held Sarah. I waved hello from the balcony to a puzzled Sarah in the stranger's arms.

-Regarde ton papa!

It was the right thing to do.

I am a nice wee fella.

I wonder what Sarah makes of all this, or anything? A load of random shite going on around her, and she is none the wiser to any of it.

She tried green beans today. Fucking hated them.

How droll

The days fairly fly by, don't they?

Fuck me.

I can barely keep track.

And there's never any time for anything, any more.

I woke up on Thursday last week, thinking it was Friday. I don't know why. I felt a mildly crushing disappointment when I realised it wasn't so. It still smarts. A sense of loss. I wish I had been off that Friday. I'd have gone swimming with Sarah and had a laugh. I wouldn't have been in work. Not that it's bad. It's just not as good as the other.

But life is good! It could be much worse.

You could be a clown.

A clown is a scary, strange man who is supposed to entertain wee ones. He doesn't though. He's a scary, weird cunt that nobody has ever liked.

The NCWC did a survey of 15 pensioners on the number 24 bus, and not one professed to liking a clown even a wee bit.

-I hate those cunts

-Scary fuckers

-Bastards

-I hate those cunts

-Reminds me of thon "IT" cunt from the films

-God bless us and save us

-Not funny

-Odd fuckers

Their words, not mine.

There was a thing on TV about a big charity dinner where rich cunts enjoyed a lavish meal, ostensibly to raise money for poor children. All these twats were fuckin' about in tuxedos drinking champagne and eating caviar and having a right old time.

Going up and down the room was a clown on a one-wheeled bicycle. What a cunt.

I think they had him there to emphasise the raising money for youngsters-ness of the whole thing.

I wept in frustration.

You could see that people didn't want him to be there. They all continued chatting away, apparently oblivious to a man with a painted face on a unicycle hovering awkwardly around them. But their strained smiles gave it away. They were as scared of him as anyone would be.

What's worse is that he was bellowing jolly clown-like sentiments the whole time, exhorting people to have a good time and acknowledge him. Mostly to acknowledge him though.

That's why clowns do it. They like to upset and frighten people, the evil bastards.

The ones who employ them are as fucking bad. Circuses, children's hospitals, parents of children having their birthdays. Cunts who throw big fundraisers for rich bastards. The news for showing them on telly. My telly.

The whole wretched affair put me in a foul mood. I had to put my foot through the TV several times to stop the pain and suffering.

Now I have no fucking TV, just a glass screen with a hole in it. My foot is really sore too. It's been bleeding ever since.

I called Info-Sante, and they say I'll probably have to go to hospital to get it looked at. We'll probably go to the Montreal Children's Hospital down the road. It's not far.

If a clown comes near by I'll kill the bastard.

I am an elderly woman

I am an elderly woman.

-"God love her"

-"Wee darlin'"

-"Poor wee thing"

Etc., etc. I say these things. That's the kind of cunt I am these days. I have my reasons. Wee Chub-Chub is sick. She's got diarrhea, poor wee thing. God love her.

She breaks your heart. I want her to get better. She is grand though. She still has her wee obsessions with buttons and colours. She is a trooper. Wee darlin'.

I have to go to work now. Fuck that. I want to stay with the wee Chub and make her day better.

For she always makes mine.

God love me.

Poor wee thing.

I ran a half-marathon

I ran a half-marathon on Sunday.

Aren't I fucking brilliant?

It was dead good. I wasn't nervous. I ran all the way without stopping, and didn't speak to anyone. I still feel good. I got a medal.

I have a form of Munchausen's Syndrome by Proxy (for Marathons), a bit like Beverly Allitt, the early-90's child killing nurse. Her mania made her harm and kill children in order to draw attention and sympathy to herself. A bit fucking mad, no? Well, mines is not that bad. Instead of murdering and maiming people, I talk about marathons and running to draw attention and sympathy to myself.

-Isn't it shocking about this Icelandic volcano? Chortle. We're all becoming something approaching experts on airspaces and flying regulations, aren't we?

-Aye, that's right. Here, I ran a fucking half-marathon yesterday, did it in under 2 hours, not bad, eh?

That sort of thing.

I did the thumbs up to a policeman who applauded me as I lumbered past. Never again will I denigrate the boys in blue. Any poor bastard they shoot deserves it 100% now as far as I'm concerned.

It rained like fuck all morning.

I came quite low in my age category.

I could have ran faster.

None of these things matter.

I ran a half-marathon. The police applauded me. I got a medal. Sarah is proud of her papa.

Best of all, it gives me the opportunity to talk about marathons and running, in order to draw attention and sympathy to myself.

A little office boy at forty pounds a year

That's me!

I started a new job.

I am a little office boy at forty pounds a year.

Such, such are the joys.

Buck daft

He's fuckin' buck daft.

A silly wee bastard.

He had me in stitches.

Then again, I was plastered.



He's a right fuckin' laugh.

He's truly not wise.

He likes the odd drink.

He comes home with black eyes.




An aggressive wee fucker.

Always lookin' to fight.

He's in no end of trouble.

He's not fucking right.




He runs about with a knife,

And a pitbull called Theo.

He once stabbed a wee fella

Who slagged Padre Pio.




He's fuckin' buck daft.

A vicious wee bastard.

The cunt gave me eight stitches.

Fuckin' put me in plaster.

The Usual Owl Shite

I saw a crow pecking at a wig yesterday. The daft cunt must have thought it was a dead animal. Actually, he's not that daft. I thought the same. He pecked at it for about thirty seconds, then said "Fuck this" and flew up into a tree. A crow is as smart as me. Better, in fact. He can fly.

If you die, in the desert, or on a road, and no-one finds you, a crow will peck you and eat part of you. That's what happens! So watch out. It wouldn't be nice. Crows are fast fuckers. Vultures are a kind of bird like a giant crow, only more vicious. They are worse than crows. You have been warned.

Owls, on the other hand, are wonderful creatures. They only eat mice, at night. They can turn their heads 360 degrees. Barn owls are white. They are scary, and don't live in barns. They don't eat dead humans. The french word for owl is hibou.

Do you remember I visited that owl's nest during the Olympics? Well, I went back. I had to print some things for my new job. The owl was dead-on. He smoked while I printed up my documents. He said he'd give me a lift home. I said I wasn't going home, I was going to the restaurant. He said he'd give me a lift.

-Alright, where to?

-The usual place, I barked.

-Righty-ho.

The owl took me to my usual haunt.

-Cheers!

-No bother.

The big white cunt flapped his wings, did a shite and flew off. Dirty bastard.

I sauntered into the restaurant like a Mafia Don.

-Your usual table, sir?

-Aye, please

-And your usual drink?

-Yeah...!

-Excellent.

I sat at my usual table, and the waiter brought me my usual drink. I thanked him in my usual fashion, and he gratefully accepted my meagre tip, as he usually does.

I sat for a while, contemplating the stale emptiness of my heart and mind, as I had done a thousand million times before, in this very spot.

The waiter came over with his wee notepad and pen.

-And what will you be having tonight, sir?

-The usual.

The waiter sighed bitterly.

-You are a right boring cunt, you know that?

-Fuck you! I flew in here on a giant barn owl, ya cunt.

He had to agree with me there.

Bain libre

We went to the swimmers today.

I had my last day at work yesterday. I'm starting a new job on Monday. It gave me a mild thrill to get a new job, but it's ultimately meaningless. It's more important to go swimming regularly.

I fucking love swimming. It's my third favourite past-time. I like swimming in the sea best. Swimming in a river is good too. So is in a lake. Swimming in a pool is my least favourite place to swim. We had to go there today though. It was too cold for anywhere else. Babies can't swim in the cold.

Sarah loves swimming. She looks right at me, thinking "Don't get my face wet, ya cunt". I oblige. Last week I dunked her, and she didn't like it. Babies can swim real good. Everyone knows that.

Babies have no knees. This is a fact, I think. I heard it somewhere. No-one believes me. But I think it's true. They have no knees 'til they're a wee bit older.

This other wee boy was with his ma. He was 11 months old, called Oscar. The wee fucker shouted a lot and made Sarah cry. I splashed him and his ma and said "Control your fuckin' wean!". Sarah giggled as I chastised the pair.

"Fuck off", I muttered, as I dive-bombed them for good measure. Fuck off.

Sarah loves swimming. She kicks her legs as I move her about the water. In the summer we'll go to Ricardo's lake, and paddle in the shallow water. There's fish there, and a loon and herons. I fucking love it. I love swimming.

It is my duty to teach her how to swim. I relish it. I will teach her to be the best swimmer in her peer group.

I took off my trunks for a laugh once and swam in Ricardo's lake. I held my trunks above my head to make them laugh. They were drinking wine on the shore. I actually really enjoyed swimming with no trunks. It felt like flying. You should try it. It's very liberating.

Oscar's ma thought me boorish for my behaviour. She's not fucking wrong. I am a boor. The ANC have a song in South Africa called "Kill the Boer". Boor comes from Boer, which is Dutch for farmer.

Ricardo is Dutch. That hoor of a ma of Oscar better not try and kill me. I'll fucking get her first. Splash! That'll be me. Chlorine right in your fuckin' eyes, missus! Sarah and Tina will laugh. We will never be allowed in the pool again.

We'll retire to Ricardo's lake and swim there instead. Ricardo is Dutch. Good people. They live under water and have to learn to swim as babies. They have no knees.

Alright?

Desperate Dan

I had a dream that I was in the garden of my old house.

When I was very, very young we moved house, across the street. We moved diagonally across the street where I lived, a distance of about 20 feet. Isn't that something?

In our old house we had a massive back garden. It had trees at the back, and a wasp's nest. I destroyed the nest and got stung, twice. I deserved it. We played football. There were bats.

Getting stung felt like getting a thorny bush branch wrapped around the part that gone stung. It was really sore. I haven't been stung since. I wouldn't mind, just to feel what it's like. I wonder would it be as sore.

I haven't been in that back garden for 17 years.

In the dream I saw every part. I walked around the garden just as it was. I saw every bit. It was dusk, or dawn. It wasn't very bright.

The dream was both sad and happy, as the best dreams are. You think of what was, and what's gone and what will never be again. And still it's nice, as you remember these same things.

I woke up and went through the day in a muffled trance. I floated everywhere, round people and down the street like a dandelion clock on the wind. I whispered fuck off to evil doers, and they didn't even realise I was there 'til I was away again. My dream carried me smoothly for a couple of hours.

I came to when I got to work. I felt like a car with no oil, all clunky and jarring after all the smoothness. Fuck that. What an amazing dream.

I had to work, but I had nothing to give.

Echoing Lord Byron, I took off all my clothes except my underpants and uttered "Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight". I fell asleep in seconds.

I dreamt I was a playing football for Man Utd.

My last day is Thurday.

Hate Crime

I was in Nova Scotia last weekend. My uncles live there. It was class.

I flew over on a plane, it's too far to drive. A fat cunt inched into the seat beside me, and the fat, selfish bastard spilled his meaty bulk all over the arm rests onto me. He had the gall to tsk and say that it was cosy, like it was the airline's fault. I gave him a cross-eyed stare and meekly agreed, smiling blankly until he looked away.

It was a class weekend. We saw loads of stuff, and talked loads. My uncles and their families are wonderful people, tolerant of my endless, childish questions and craven, lunatic outbursts. I love them both. I love them all.

Nova Scotia is dead nice, really friendly and not like Quebec at all. We went to the sea, but it was too cold for me to even put my face in. The waves kept chasing me away. I didn't want to get my feet wet. I saw a puppy dog. He was nice. I bought Wee Chub a wee cardigan that has sailboats on it. I like it. She doesn't give a shite.

I missed my baba. I'm bringing her next time, and Tina too. All of us, like gypsies. She'll love the sea and the dogs. I missed them both. The sea is a very sad place, in the evening and when it isn't summer. It's beautiful, though.

I looked out at it, like a Vietnam veteran who is putting his demons to rest while flashbacks of Woodstock and Jimi Hendrix songs play across his face. Happy, yet sad at the same time. And bald, with long hair at the back, and a straggly moustache. And a bandana. That was me. And army fatigues with peace symbols.

I flew to Nova Scotia, and it was effortless. On a plane, wait a wee bit, sit and watch a shite film, drink a small, overpriced thing of beer and there you are, landing in a new place. Isn't the world small? So small, so close. I changed time zone, and landscape and crossed sea and it took fuck all time. The closeness of it excites me. So many different things so close by.

I'm gonna learn how to drive, soon. I am learning, I'll get my license I mean. Then I can drive to Nova Scotia. It's not an island. I thought it was. It's a peninsula. Like Korea and the Ards peninsula.

I ate fish. Fish and chips. We went out for lunch, and I could have had anything, any special thing, and I chose that. My uncle was disappointed, and couldn't hide it. He had a magnificent seafood soup, with mussels, clams and chunks of cod in a broth. I picked fish and chips, for no discernible reason.

-You're a fuckin' daft cunt. You could have had anything on the menu and you chose fish and chips. Anything.

-I know. And I don't know why. I like the look of yours. But I chose mine.

-Is it nice?

-Yea.

I think I'd choose the same meal again. I love fish and chips, love them more than I am willing to take a chance on some mad fuckin' seafood broth. I still wanted a bit of his, though.

I leaned over the table and put my face in the bowl, and noisily drank as much as I could before he pulled me away.

-Ha ha! A bit cosy here, eh? Me fallin' in the bowl! Cosy.

My uncle gave me a cross-eyed stare and meekly agreed. He smiled at me blankly until I had to look away.

Fuck off

Fuck off!

That doesn't even make sense, if you think about it.

Fuck off? Fuck off. Fuck off! Fuck. Off. Fuckoff! Fuck off.

Go away is better. Nobody says fuck off in Canadia, except me. It doesn't even make grammatical sense. Va chier. Away and shite. Fuck off.

Fuck off! To lurch off, priapic and thrusting like a gibbering, drooling sex fiend. That's how you fuck off.

I say fuck off the best in all of Canadia. Fuck off!

We went to the cinema today. Some cunt in the line wouldn't be accommodating and stood awkwardly forcing everyone to move around him. Fuck off! I poured his cardboard coke drink all over his head and booted him roughly in the arse. Fuck off, I whispered softly in his ear. Fuck off.

The film was preceded by the worst, shitiest advertisements and in-house skits I've ever seen. Fuck off! I threw a small toffee hammer I always carry around with me right at the canvas screen, ripping a big fucking hole in it. Fuck off, I roared. 

Fuck off, I thought again, as I realised I'd potentially lost my wee hammer. I went up onto the stage to get it. Some twat tried to remonstrate with me on the way up, I told him to fuck off. I got the wee hammer, thank goodness. Fuck off. I threatened him, a German man with dreadlocks, with the hammer. He didn't look scared. Fuck off.

When the film (Shutter Island) began, I murmured contentedly, softly, inaudibly, "Mmm... fuck off... fuck off... fuck off" between mouthfuls of peanut M&Ms. This had better be good, I thought. Fuck off, I said.

And it was good. I knew the twist already, which made it less enjoyable for me than it could have been. My fault, really. I looked it up on the internet, because I couldn't wait.

And so I watched it with this knowledge, and enjoyed it still. A good movie! A good film. I watched it with the big rip in the screen, and didn't tell anyone else to fuck off.

I'm still thinking about it now. I'd like to watch it again. I'm thinking too about fuck off. About how good a phrase it is, how final and curt. So quick to say! Fuck off. 

Yet I've said it so much, it's lost its meaning. Try it! Look in the mirror and say anything, over and over, and it becomes a noise, like the croak of a frog. It loses its potency. A wee, weak fuck off where once a mighty lion roared.

Now my fuck off doesn't mean a thing. I tried it there, at the shop when I went to buy some cheese. I told the wee man at the counter to fuck off, I screamed it at him. He just smiled and said "Oui, monsieur".

I am the boy who cried fuck off.

Fuck off?

The Troubles

Today was class. It rained for the morning, then it was nice. 

It didn't get dark until about 7. The day felt really long.

We went for a big long walk and found a new Italian place. It was odd, because it was in the area where we live, and it was an Italian place like you'd find in an Italian neighbourhood, in Montreal anyways.

It had all Italian food, and Italian people. Wee men sitting about talking shite and wearing cool clothes, looking at funny things on their iPhones. And talking loudly.

All this, right here in the middle of a place where you wouldn't expect to find it.

Without wanting to sound like a boring sociology cunt (yet failing), Montreal is full of all wee ethnic neighbourhoods. It still is, after all these years, and is all the better for it.

So seeing this wee Italian shop, with real Montreal Italians outside of their natural home, was good. Here where we live is almost entirely Quebecois or French, or annoying wankers from Ontario who go to McGill. Or me, the best, sweetest and kindest human being who ever drew breath on this earth.

Anyhow, I bought a load of lovely shite like octopus, wee sweets, pasta and biscuits, and it was class. We minded McKibben, the young elephant from upstairs, and he was as placid as fuck.

He's a good elephant. He did a huge shite outside the front step of the shop, and I had to clean it up with a shovel. I put the shite in a builder's skip in an alley round the corner.

If you're wondering, I don't even use a lead for him, he's that well trained.

Elephants should eat grass and trees and things, in nature. McKibben is a fucking dirty brute, he's really obese. Jean C. feeds him all kinds of shite, like crisps, kit-kats, burgers and oven chips. I was sick three times shoveling his shite into the skip. I didn't mind, though. He's a thoughtful and sweet young animal. Sarah likes him.

Tomorrow we are going to see Shutter Island, I can't fucking wait. I'm going to smuggle in sweets bought outside the cinema. I'm telling you now. Everyone should do that. Sweets in the cinema are too dear. If they tell you no, tell them to go fuck themselves.

McKibben is coming with me to watch Man Utd. vs Liverpool at a pub tomorrow morning at half-past nine. I hope they let Elephants in. 

He'll go fucking mental if he has to wait outside.

Thank the Big Man upstairs

I had to thank the Big Man upstairs today.

Not God, silly! Not today.

(If anybody, anywhere, in my company, uses that phrase in the context of being thankful, well... I'll fucking batter them. With a cricket bat, with the legend "YOU FUCKING ASKED FOR THIS" written on it).

No, I had to thank Jean C., the man who lives above us. He let me use his printer and scanner. He's dead on.

He gave me the nicest cup of coffee I've ever tasted in my life. It was really delicious. We had a good chat. The coffee was unlike any coffee I'd ever had before.

I'm still thinking about it. I might invent spurious reasons to go up to his now, just to drink his coffee.

It was that good.

There's me drinking shite coffee every day, and then I have this.

I don't want to overdo it, because then it might not be as special. I did that with tapioca pudding, recently. I no longer like it as violently. I ate too much one day and got sickened. I don't want to do that with Jean's coffee.

I always do that. I got sickened off smoked meat sandwiches. I can't look at them now, not in the same way, not like before. I'd still eat one, but less joyfully.

But you know what? I never fucking loved smoked meat anyway, not really! 

Fuck you, smoked meat. 

You big bastard.

You're not like The Best Foods. Not like curry chips, or indian food, or weetabix, or onions, or bananas, or fish. Or all cheese. Or apple pie.

I can eat them all day, all in the same meal, and they are the best. They never make me not like them.

Perhaps that's the test, to get into my special The Best Foods club. 

So fuck it. I'll drink that delicious coffee as much as I'm allowed.

If, at the end, that wonderful coffee is still with me, then it can enter the pantheon of the The Best Foods, smiling down on me, in my head, for ever and ever.

If not, I will drink it anyway, out of politeness and the hope that it can once again be so good.

If you're wondering about the photo, I took that. He has a pet elephant called McKibben, and we took it for a run in the park. That's him cooling off in the wee lake in the park. 

Parp! Parp! Parp!

The Incredible World of Horace Ford

On Sunday there it was the St. Patrick's Day parade in Montreal.

It's a big deal. About 44 million people turn up. Everyone is blocked. All the politicians go and pretend to be Irish.

We were marching in it with the gaelic team.

The weather was shite. It was fucking freezing and wet. You wouldn't want to go out in it. My socks got soaked.

It was a good laugh, though. We all went to a hall afterwards and had drinks. It was lovely.

I dressed up as evil McDonald's villain The Hamburglar, for no reason. No-one else dressed up like that. 

The Hamburglar is a terrifying cunt who steals hamburgers, a real bastard. Never pays for them. I dressed up as him, in a stripy convict's outfit and wide-brimmed hat. 

Nobody said a word.

It was a good day. I missed my wee baba though. It was too cold for her to be marched around in the open. She wouldn't have enjoyed it. Tina minded her. I wish they both had been there, but. They'll enjoy it next year.

Somebody died when they jumped up on a float when they were blocked. They fell off and got killed by the lorry. 

I heard about it after. 

I came home that evening dressed as the Hamburglar, just like I was when I left the house before.

-"Did anyone say anything about you dressed as the Hamburglar?"

-"No, not really. No."

I enjoyed being dressed as the Hamburglar. Sarah did too, for a while. But it didn't mean anything to her.

Me and her walked about the house, me with her in my arms, walking about. We do loads of cool shit together. I turn on the taps, open cupboards, take out spoons and look at them, all kinds of activities. She loves all shite like that.

She looks at me when I'm doing it, taking it all in. I clean her medicine spoon under the tap, she's sitting there against my hip, me holding her. She loves it. Her face all concentrated, watching daddy doing all the things. Brilliant.

She is the apple of my eye, whatever the fuck that means. She is.

Monday morning I went to work dressed as the Hamburglar, again.

Not a fucking word was said nor a glance given.

What an artist the world is losing in me.

Terrible altogether

Did you hear? Bad news today...

The wee man's sick! He's got Big J.

Big J, indeed? What's that, I wonder?

JAYDZ is what they file it under!

JAYDZ you say? It sounds familiar!

Mark Fowler had it! Supposed to kill yer!

Rock Hudson too! And Liberace!

It gets about. It must be catchy.

Now, I know what you're thinking of.

JAYDZ is different. Not as rough!

With a day in bed, and lots of rest,

You'll soon regain your pre-JAYDZ zest!

Yet what is it, this malady,

That can't be passed on sexually?

You'll not get it from infections!

Nor blood transfusions! Nor injections!

JAYDZ is strange, the truth be told.

JAYDZ is got by getting old!

You'll sneeze! You'll cough! You'll shite the bed!

You'll speak in tongues! You'll raise the dead!

Your ma will have to wash your sheeting!

Thank fuck, she'll say, that JAYDZ is fleeting!

He's got the JAYDZ! Now he's like me.

I miss the days when he was wee.

For JAYDZ, like death, affects us all.

It wears us down. It makes us small.

So what to do? What can be done?

If JAYDZ is meant for everyone?

Hit JAYDZ a boot right up its hole!

You mustn't let it take it toll!

A smile! A laugh! A joke a day!

That's what keeps the JAYDZ at bay.

So don't get old. Don't be a man.

Stay young instead like Peter Pan!

In this shitey world that we've created,

Growing up is fucking overrated.

Merciful heavens

I killed a terminally-ill sparrow 3 years ago.

It didn't have AIDS or anything (though it might have). It was fucked. He had a bad accident and wasn't getting any better.

I found it outside my door of my apartment when I lived in Luxembourg. It was lying on its back with its wee feet in the air, the beak opening and closing weakly. He was on his way out. He broke my heart.

Tina was there too. We were coming back from the shops, we'd bought a load of lovely things from Auchan. Tina was mightily impressed by the cheese counter.

We were coming up to the door, and saw the wee sparrow there on the ground. He must have flew into the door.

Poor wee bastard.

We looked at him for a bit, and went on up the stairs.

I felt bad, though. He is just a sparrow, it couldn't have been much fun.

It was my duty to alleviate his suffering.

I went downstairs with a plastic bag, and picked him up with my hand inside the bag. I didn't want to touch him with my bare hands.

I turned the bag inside out, removed my hand from it and let the wee bird fall into the bag.

I filled the bag full of water from an outhouse tap and drowned him, and threw the bag in the bin afterward.

It was one of the kindest acts I've ever performed.

I made rabbit stew that night, and remember most being disappointed by the amount of bones in the rabbit. 

Too many bones in rabbit. I haven't eaten it since.

True Crime

I saw a man booting a woman up the hole today.

I was only joking yesterday about booting your man up the hole. It didn't really happen.

But today I did see a man boot a woman up the hole.

There's this street in Montreal called Rue Ontario, it's a right fucking shitey place. It's down the hill from us.

It is dead poor and run-down looking. All prostitutes and heroin addicts run about on the street. It's not dangerous or anything.

It is a shithole though.

Me, Sarah and Tina were walking about because it's a nice day. I wanted to go to a Polish bakery on the street, further along the street. We were on our way there. I didn't really know where it was, just that it was somewhere along the street.

We were dandering along, wee baby asleep in the pram, and up ahead I saw this man pushing a woman. Tina has shite eyesight, mines is brilliant, so I saw it from really far ahead. I have the eyesight of a hawk.

This wee homeless man was pulling a woman's arm. She was a prostitute, 'cos it was 4 o'clock and she had a short skirt on, and it was still the winter in Montreal even though it was nice. She was definitely a prozzie, like.

He pulled her over the road then booted her up the hole! Swung a good boot and kicked her up the arse, right in the traffic. A police car drove by and did fuck all.

I thought it best that we turn back.

All my writing too about booting a poor wee innocent man up the hole for some imagined transgression...

It's wrong to boot people up the hole, except for self-defence. Poor woman. Even if she did attack the wee homeless man, he shouldn't boot her up the hole. It's a particularly humiliating act of violence.

Like the police car, I went about my business like a good Catholic, ignoring her sore-arsed plight.

I wouldn't get involved in shite like that. It's not worth it. The wee homeless cunt could have stabbed me. The fucker was mad enough to boot a woman up the hole in the middle of traffic. Plus I had a wee baby and wee lady in my charge.

I hope she's OK, the lady. I'm sure she is. I saw her calling him a wanker from the other end of the street when I looked back. Hole bootings, like kneecappings, are usually not too serious. The bootee usually recovers with nothing more than a stiff gait for a few minutes after. They're up on their feet in no time.

The world is full of mad bastards.

The Knight Club

I booted that wee 50s beatnik man in the balls.

I feel awful about it.

I did it when he was locking his car after taking the groceries off the back seat.

I booted him hard up the hole from behind, stamping his balls against the car door as I lifted my foot.

What kind of a cunt am I?

I ran away giggling, up the steps into our house. I looked back as I opened the door and he was leaning against the car, groaning. He saw me, like. 

There was all crisps broken and spilled everywhere, around his feet. BBQ flavoured ones.

He must have just bought crisps. He had a reusable bag.

Why do I do these things?

He lives two doors up. He's always eating out on the porch with his family in the summer. They always drink wine, every day. He wears an apron.

And a beret.

I think that's why I did it.

Cereal Madrid

I've never been to Italy. I feel pretty bad about it.

I had the chance to go, and didn't. It's harder to get to from where I am now. Maybe I'll never go.

I don't think I'd like to go to Russia. 

I cycled to Germany twice, from Luxembourg. It wasn't very far. It was great.

I'm not really in the mood for travelling these days. Except on my bike, to New York, with a trailer and Sarah in it.

Apart from that, I'm most interested in getting some sleep. 

A lie-in feels now like a decadent luxury, an impossibility. Wee babies will get you up early, that's the rules about being a ma or da. You can't mess about and shirk your responsibility. But you wouldn't even want to.

You were a wee baby once.

I was bald, with a round, white face and red cheeks.

I don't want to go to any cities for a while. I just want to go to the seaside. I didn't like the sea very much as a child. I was pretty indifferent to it.

My love for the sea grew as I got older. I like it more and more. 

I don't care about boats very much. Just being in the sea, swimming.

I saw an octopus once, in the water, it was brilliant, he moved dead fast. I will always remember it. Octopus tastes nice, better than squid.

My ma and da would never eat squid, or octopus, or fancy fish. Just cod, and maybe haddock.

Parents are brilliant, they have better rules and are more selfless than their ungrateful bastard children.

I want Sarah to think the same of me and Tina- a timeless, old-fashioned, honourable and quaint ma and da. Can't work the fucking internet, hates pasta, wears jumpers, reads Ireland's Own, likes dogs, that sort of thing.

Imagine you were like Lady GaGa or something to your children, all cutting edge and cool, and all. Fuck that. 

There's a wee man up the road from us who dresses like a 50's beatnik and runs about with his weans like fashion accessories. I'm going to boot him in the balls and piss all up against the side of his house.

Aye, Montreal is full of cool parents, in the sense of being a city with lots of pretentious hipster bastards who have children.

They can all fuck off. 

I'm getting a car with wood panelling on the side, tomorrow. You can shove your SmartCar up your hole. It'd probably fit, 'cos the SmartCars so wee, and your hole is so big. My car will be massive and inefficient, like a fucking Kleenex box with wheels.

We'll holiday at the seaside, we three. 

You'll see me on the beach, wearing a tank top, bald, with a round, white face and red cheeks.

The New Centurions

What an artist the world is losing in me! 

That's what Nero said for his famous last words.

Goethe said "More Light!". 

I had a book of facts as a child that had a couple of pages of famous people's last words. There were drawings too; Nero was a fat cunt with a blue face. Goethe had a sleeping hat on like the moon wears, with a tassel on the end. He looked in bad shape.

It was a good book, probably the best I've ever read. It was called "Bumper Book of Facts for Boys and Girls" or something.

I eventually defaced it by drawing pictures of belt-fed machine guns over all the pages. I can't remember why I did this. This is true.

I miss that book. 

I love reading. It's my favourite hobby. You can't beat a good book. I had to leave loads of good books at home when I came here. My wee brother reads them. I took some, though. 

I pass on my knowledge and wisdom to the youth, like an Olympic flame. His wee face glows as he reads, righteous fires dancing in his eyes as his fingers tread the path my own have worn. He'd better not fucking draw anything on the pages.

He shouldn't though, he turned 20 in January.

But you never really know.

I got bored of eating today. Not of the process of nourishing myself. I got bored of eating the foods that I eat. Nothing seemed desirable. 

I think I want some fish.

I live far from the sea. That's a pain in the hole. I love the sea. There's loads of lakes here, and they're nice and good for swimming. But I like the sea best. You get better fish when you live beside the sea. That's a fact.

I swam in the sea in January once, in Donegal. It was good. I'd do it again. It wasn't too cold. Ronan did it too. We enjoyed many adventures, and plan many more. I love him.

Fish is fucking lovely. There was this woman at the wedding on Saturday who wouldn't eat a wee bit of salmon, because she claims never to eat fish. She said it all proud, like saying she walks everywhere, or recycles.

Well fuck you, missus. I love fish, and so should you. I think bad of you for not eating fish, like you're a wee child. You're missing out. It does you no harm, unless you're allergic to it. Even then.

Fish is delicious, I love fish.

Fuck your dislike of fish, and seafood.

Qualis piscator pereo.

The Wander Years

I have a cold. I've had a cold all week, since last week. I feel like shite. I wouldn't fancy having AIDS, it'd feel like that only much worse, I imagine.

It has spoiled my enjoyment of life since it started. That's what colds do, they're cunts. Why? Fuck off, cold germs. 

I went to a wedding on Saturday, it was class. We took Sarah to the church, then left her with Tina's ma and da for the after do. It was lovely. The food was amazing, all free drink, good music, good people there too. I had such a lovely time I phoned the groom the next day and said "Thank you for the lovely time". I said more than that, but that's basically what I said.

It was that lovely a time.

I have loads of lovely times. I was talking shite to Sarah the other day, crooning dreadful, redundant streams of nothingness into her wee ears. It was a list of words that each started with wee. It was a lovely time.

I could do anti-drugs ads, with me going "I don't need drugs to have a lovely time". Take note, Quebec Health Club, or whatever the fuck you're called. I'm your man.

Sarah is wee. I am pretty wee too. I think I am below average height. I don't mind. It isn't the handicap it used to be, wee people can join the police now. You don't have to be over 6 foot tall to join. Look at "Toots" in Police Academy. She's tiny.

She has a loud voice, though.

I fucking hate the cold. I couldn't even run in the morning. I could physically run, my legs were OK, but I'd get out of breath. I have stopped not drinking. It feels the same as not drinking, drinking does. It's OK. It was a bit of an anti-climax, having a drink. Either way, it's alright. Both have benefits.

Today, for no reason at all, I remembered an episode from French class at school. We were doing something about pollution, and there was a song that went "La pollution de l'air, c'est aussi mon affaire...". Christopher drew a picture of a plane with all smoke coming out of its exhaust, spelling the word pollution. It was great. I didn't even know that planes were bad polluters, but he did. I only found out much later.

He also, on his first day in French class, apropos of nothing, pronounced Jean-Pierre Papin to be Jewish. I am still not sure if this is true.

The cold has made me very tired. I'm better now, but. 

I had to go to a convalescent home for World War One soldiers. It was at the English seaside, and a nurse pushed me about in a bath-chair for a month. I stared silently at the faded beauty of the south coast out of season, and ate ice-cream.

I'm going to the seaside at the end of the month, incidentally, to visit my uncles in Halifax. 

I plan to have a lovely time.

Doing the do

I found this on a wrestling website.

(Lads, I just stole it. I'll give it back if you want me to. Don't wrestle me or anything).

This makes me immensely happy. 

It says:

"Fuck you! I am the NCWC Thunder. Oh? You wanna mess with me? Well, fuck you. You can't. I will blow you up like a lightening bolt and make your big toes fall off".

That is exactly what this says.

NCWC Thunder.

A real treat

Tapioca Pudding!

It's my newest favourite food.

I tried it first on Friday.

It's a flavorsome wee pud.

It sounds a bit old fashioned.

Like your granny would've ate.

Don't knock it 'til you've tried it!

I think it's fucking great.

It comes from the cassava.

A kind of foreign tree.

They grow it in Brazil, I think.

Pele has it for his tea.

I eat it after dinner.

It's a versatile dessert.

I love its subltle sweetness!

It renders me inert.

So fuck your fancy ice-cream!

Ben and Jerrys' is for cunts.

For Tapioca Pudding's all,

A real man really wants.

Magnificent Obsession

I bought a new pair of shoes today. My old ones are fucked.

I need them for a wedding this weekend. They are nice shoes. Decent price, grown-up looking ones. Proper laces and no wee lights at the bottom or wheels on the soles.

I needed new shoes for at least 4 months. I didn't want to buy them, though. But now I did. I am not going to wear them 'til the wedding. I would ruin them.

I hate shopping for clothes.

How can one be a shopaholic? Alcoholic is better. Shopping does not give me a buzz. It's shite. Food shopping is good. I used to go with my ma when I was a wee child on a Thursday night, and I'd buy a comic and help my ma with the groceries. I'd get stuff I liked. 

Once I managed to get my ma to buy me a cheese in the shape of a sausage. It was a smoked cheese. I thought I was fuckin' class. I had to get her to buy me it, as I was 7, and had no way of paying for the cheese. I could have saved my communion money, I suppose.

But I was never a saver.

It was a nice cheese. I thought I was Keith Floyd or something. I knew fuck all about anything. I knew slightly more than I know today.

I look back, and I haven't really changed, in this respect. I still enjoy food shopping and buying comics. I even go shopping with my ma when I'm at home. I like it.

My poor old shoes, but, discarded now like wee dogs in an RSPCA advert. They were fucked, though. Nothing lasts anymore. There are no more cobblers (this isn't true). Everybody throws everything out.

Horrifyingly, my old shoes started skittering about the house when they saw the new pair. Tina ran screaming into the bathroom and locked the door, screaming "Kill them!".

Kill them.

They were scraping at the door to try and get out and run away. One had shat all over the floor. I wasn't having this. 

I'm not a violent man, but shiting all over the new mat was a sickener.

I got a spade from the shed and battered the shoes to death. Just fucking walloped them with the spade, the broad end of it.

I put the remains in a plastic shopping bag and left the bag in a neighbour's wheelie bin.

When I came back into the house Tina was still in the bathroom. I said come out, now, it's over. They're gone. They're away, the new shoes are here. The good new shoes for the wedding.

Sarah put her fist in her mouth and gurgled.

Tina and I looked at each other for a long, long time, without saying anything.

"No more new shoes, love. I can't do this again".

She agreed.

Tina put Sarah to bed, then, because it was the time for that.

She's too young to know about shoes, or any of that business. She likes her bare feet, in fact. She's always kicking off her socks. Why does she do such a thing?

I thought about this, then, and quietly read my comic, eating my small cylinder of smoked cheese.

Club d'échec

I fell asleep on the bus today on the way home.

I was sitting away at the back, between a big fat hoor and a wee nice man. The nice wee man had kind eyes and a thoughtful expression on his face. I didn't see the woman's face. She spoke English on her mobile the whole way. She was telling her mate about how good her presentation was. I hated her.

I fell asleep about two minutes after sitting down. I felt like I was asleep for hours. It was only for a few minutes. I was in that mad, waking dream state, where my thoughts ran incoherently into one another. You know the one. You can't hold onto a thought, and it slips away into another mad thought, then another, and another.

I fell asleep on a a Ryanair flight once from Frankfurt to Dublin. I think I screamed aloud several times in a high pitched yelp, 'cos I awoke with a start and everyone was looking at me.  I was hoping I didn't do the same on the bus. I have to take it every day. I couldn't be done with shaming myself in that manner.

I walk to work twice a week. I'm an awful awkward cunt. One day last week I tried to overtake a wee girl ahead of me, but when I got abreast of her, she kept walking at the same pace as me. I couldn't handle it, so I walked even faster. I didn't want to walk beside her.

A man told me to get off his seat once. I was sitting in the place reserved for pregnant women, old folks and the physically disabled. I was pretty tired. He was blind and had a dog. His dog looked blind too. It had blue eyes. He asked me to let him sit there. It was fair enough.

Some lads got on one day that looked like they were in a band. They all had effeminate voices. They came from out-of-town. They got off at my stop and went up to an apartment. I know where they live, or where their friends  live. They seemed a friendly bunch. They had star quality. This is true.

Last week I was walking in the cold without a hat, or gloves. The wind was so cold. It was mad, my forehead froze, and my hair and ears. When my ears thawed out, they hurt like fuck. I gnashed my teeth, such was the pain.

-Fuckin' cuntin' bastard fuck... fuckin' ow... ow... cunt

Tears of anger and discomfort came to my eyes. But I wasn't sad. I was suffering.

Don't play the fool. Wrap up warm in the winter if you are out walking in the cold. Don't make the same mistakes I did. Or do. I don't give a shite.

I'd do the same again I think. It was a good walk. It was right for me.

All of this is, and everything else I've ever written (except the owl story and a few other things), are true.

Men's downhill

It was mad being in that owl's nest. A huge owl, the biggest I'd ever seen (and I've seen a few owls in my time).

A massive owl. 

After a while of eating mice, chatting with the wee owls and spitting on people down below, I decided I'd had enough.

"I've had enough of this silly nonsense" I announced prissily. "I'm off! Thanks for the mice."

And I jumped down from the nest, using a binbag I'd found trapped in a branch as a parachute.

The owls didn't give a fuck.

And here I am today. 

I'm going for a run tomorrow morning. It's great, running is. I feel so good after it, indestructible and violently happy and confident for about three hours. Then I have food at lunchtime and get tired, reducing into myself like a wee fatigued armadillo. I like it though.

You can't be violently happy all the time. There is a time and a place for everything. 

Here you truly feel all the seasons in the year. Summer is hot and green, Autumn is pretty and melancholy, Winter is death and Spring is life again. All are good in their own way, and all are necessary.

Winter is good if you want to slow down for a bit and read a lot. It's good for watching TV series and going for walks wrapped up. You can eat big massive meals in winter and light a fire. Only do that if you've a fireplace though.

I don't like skiing. 

I want to cycle to New York City sometime. I know it's possible, 'cos we went to a cycle cafe near our house, and they had a map showing a cycle-path all the way from the US border to New York. I'm gonna fucking do it. Me and Sarah. Tina can't, because I ride her bike. I can maybe give her a backie. I'm putting Sarah in a wee trailer with an orange flag on top, full of books and soft toys to keep her amused. And a radio.

It's not a girl's bike, it's a normal one with a normal bar across. And that is all wrong anyway, the way that girl's bikes have a wee slanty bar. It should be the other way about, as I was forever bashing my balls on thon bar as a youngster.

Food for thought, eh, Mr. Raleigh? Ya cunt.

Probably not this year, but. Probably not the next one neither. But I will. 

First I'm gonna buy a fucking owl gun though. The bastards are all over the place.

Any Owl Shite

I'm sorry about all my disparaging of the Olympics. It isn't shite.

Well, it isn't that shite. It's a bit shite. I'm rootin' for Canadia. A wee fella from up the road won a Gold medal on Sunday night, the first time ever a gold medal was won by a Canadian in a Canadian Olympics. I wept with joy as I set fire to cars outside my house, draped in Old Glory. God Bless Quebec.

The hockey is on now. Canada just fucking duffed Norway, killed them.

I ran onto the ice as the final goal was scored, to hug all the Canadians. 

A giant white barn owl swooped down before I could reach them, and carried me to its lofty perch. I'm there now, with its youngsters, eating mice that their ma brought up. Not bad, at all, at all.

I just spat on the Norway manager's head, too. 

God Bless us all!

Comets

Very recently, I was walking about the house with Sarah in a sort of papoose thing called a Baby Bjorn. What a shite name. My tired brain can only associate it with ABBA, and that awkward looking ginger cunt with a wee beard who played the piano or something.

So I was walking about, and kissing her wee head, talking shite to her like I normally do. She was falling asleep, so to keep myself entertained I got a book off the shelf, a guide to Ireland that Tina got a few years ago. And I began reading.

I went to the section on Northern Ireland, my homeland, and started reading at random. I was so emotionally affected by reading about Lough Neagh and The Marble Arch caves that I started to gasp in that pre-crying way that sensitive five year-old girls do when the teacher shouts at them. What a truly beautiful and unique country. I truly love Ulster, Belfast, Irlande du Nord.

People are kind, funny, smart and generous. I can't wait to bring Sarah there in May. It'll be fucking class. I romantise the place wildly with everyone I meet, and tell them lies about how good it is. But those lies I believe with all my heart.

In my mind, the air seems clearer and colder. It's definitely windier than here. My dad once claimed that it was colder in Belfast than in Montreal at wintertime, and wouldn't hear otherwise.

-Da, it's fuckin' minus 30 sometimes, come on

-No

But he was right. It is colder.

I am going to climb the Mournes, go to pubs, pet animals at my granny's farm, go to Bangor with Christopher and swim in the sea, all with my wee baba. Tina won't let her swim in the sea though, it's too cold.

But I will. And I'll emerge from the waves and impress the shite out of my infant daughter.

I am a hero.

A good weekend

This weekend was a good weekend. It lasted about 3 years, much longer than the usual 2 days. It was quietly great. I didn't even realise it at the time, while it was happening, but as I sit here now, and think about it, it was dead nice.

In a wholesome way. I have been off booze since the start of the year. I did the same last year. It's good, you feel better. There is absolutely no reason for doing it, other than it can be done. Anyway, I said I'd do it, so I did and am. I will drink again on 24th February (you have been warned, Montreal!). Only joking. I'm not a violent alcoholic.

I resisted a lot of temptation to booze last night- at our friend Mario's on Saturday, he had tonnes of lovely drink on offer. His da makes his own wine, it's fucking lovely. I didn't have any. He had about 300 bottles of whiskey too, and I didn't touch a drop. I am a virtuous cunt. It will make it all the more delicious when I return to them.

He made lovely dinner, many delicious things. He is a great cook. He is a cunt. Not really. He is a great human being, and I love him. His parents are Italian.

On Friday, I went out for a friend's birthday, to a pub downtown. I again wasn't drinking, but it was still good. Everyone else was blocked. I can walk to town, it's class. So close, so very near. I love where I live, there is a big park nearby that offers all sorts of shite to do. You can eat picnics there in the summer, and drink to your heart's content, as long as you have food with you. If you don't, the police will knock your fuck in, shoot you and steal your drink. So be careful, al fresco drinkers.

I went for a run there today, three times round the park. Fucking killed me. I didn't eat anything all day before. I am a cretin, sometimes.

Tina's ma and da came to look after wee Sarah, and we went out for a meal, to a lovely French bistro. I had steak tartare, my favourite dish. I demolished the fucking thing. Again, with a look of saintly piety, I turned my head from the wine menu like a statue of St Martin de Porres, and fixed my gaze on the slowly falling snow outside. I had a diet pepsi. Would have loved a fucking glass of wine though. But such is life and such are the irrational, yet ultimately rewarding decisions I sometimes make.

We ate and enjoyed ourselves, and the snow outside was so pretty in the night. I feel myself a truly lucky young bucko. Head of the world-famous NCWC, in a fine city in a good country, with a wonderful family and friends around me, both here and at home. I met head-on the temptation to break my solemn pledge, and told him to fuck off. I ran round the park three times in the bitter cold. I had lovely food. I read a good book. I carried my daughter around the house looking at interesting objects together.

I had a good weekend. If you don't believe me, just look at the picture at the top.