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.