Sunday, March 21, 2010

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?

Saturday, March 20, 2010

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.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

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!

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

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.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

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.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

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.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

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.

Friday, March 5, 2010

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.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

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.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

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.

Monday, March 1, 2010

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.