Endless meringues now mingin. Poleaxehandle up the jacksy why me? I’ll tell you why, you’re a scoundrel, a skinrel, a kindrel and a canoot. You are a shining star amidst a sea of perforated peacocks blanched. The sun will never touch you, hounded as you were. Give a little get a bit return the empties flicking caps at kids for kicks. Surround yourself with ghouls aplenty, be sure they’re the grinning type, get them under lamplight and more shall be revealed. Fingers stiff a lovers tiff the bleek pontiff mmakes two for tay. Underwords scrumbling blackface in Gina. Trump comes a dumping be black be beaut backwards. Kill off the weedlings and work with the wanks, post me a letter when ye hear back from gran.

Leatherfleece flicking his beanbag two beans what a feast. Forwards now have the craic otherwise you’ll be lynched by David and Goliath and the rest of the argonoughts. Wax on wank off wiggle room piggle room diggle room schmiggle’s tomb is sacred to the many. Bleed for me baby, show me how your window’s wide. Sly fox trottin by the side of a toad, carcas at the ready if you’re weak.

Right so here we go what all did you see today? I seed a hippototamus and a pink clown aand a friar  station and a mink monk molooshing the murk mist beckons don’t you go knockin!

Also I seed , or rather herd, a sloosh of minklewurms, they were slouching, of course, and never were we worked so hard in all our days by Jesus Brendan Behan wouldn’t have a lookin. Tell Jersey Joe Walcot that his Shirt Factory’s on fire and that Marciano might make the cut if he can grow an inch or two, prey tell, tell aa fortune if ye let me. But who’s to reap? The Jeews of course! Those rootlings! No never. I have always loved a good Jew. Particularly the Jewess. Never has a lady so beschmiggled me than when the day a hook-nosed clawsnatch grabbed me by the particulars. SAME WORD TWICE, YOU’RE OUT!

Sinbin.

Now sit and suffer. Butt stuffing your only recompense purloin curfew forgotten the time. Let me be a lickle of your fancy. A smooching wurltz. One of the daddies. Yagh just for one day. Me and Davide, Iniesta and the boys, Scholsey watchin on with a frump, waitin on his dinner. There’s a lotta lovely laddies out there and I’m often tempted. But the landbaron wouldn’t have it. So I peck and pick and sniff and snoot. Letting only my legs go as swimming is permitted. Wildmen rambling. Goosefed frinklings. Forcefed Freudians. Feck them all to hell!

P.s wistless was the mistress as she misspelt all  the witness protection non-negotiable but frankly im a kink or rather you’re the fink and not a subteraean jerkoff but Kerouac the holy the magic the mystic the king of all, master of compassion, hold him in high esteem, if ye’ve any wits about ye drop.

The yawning face of death approaches. Slanderous malodourous maleficent magnates molest a measly mite. Magnificent, isn’t it? How it all comes together? Yes, it really is quite something. Do you think that… No, I’m afraid that is an impossibility, at least in my opinion. Well, I don’t know what to say. Hmm, how to proceed?

Straight in no kissin’. Awful rude, but that’s how she likes it. Rough n’ ready. Grease the flagpole, we’re going for broke! Break necks at every opportunity. Broker deals across picnic tables with nameless dreadmongerers. Snort long lines of sulphorous schnoot, if that’s what gets ya kickin’. Me I like a little glass of water, maybe a coffee if I’m feeling flamboyant. And that is most of the time,  except on Wednesdays Tuesdays and Fridays. Sometimes I wear a dickie bow to the shops, nobody bats an eyelid.

And now vile revenge must be wreaked on everybody that ever sent a bad word my way in goodness. Retreat ye cumgoblins, ye slayers of the true. I shall beat your bums with pandy bat and chase. Ever anon. God if ye never woke up to the taste of bitterness there’d be something wrong. Now’s the time for morose reflection, for tears in the teacup woe betiding.

So I guess I’ll straighten up a moment and talk sense of a sort. It hurts ye know. Sometimes it does hurt. Act the eejit and you’re sure to be smitten. But like like what do ye do? Hurt a wee minute then pick yourself up and jump. Flyin’ about like a madman, some laugh. Yagh, the big laugh. A big laugh for everyone. Fuck I need a drink. Gimmie water, and a minute’s peace, lemme say a prayer here.

Bein’ mad is mad but bein’ straight up mad is madder. Like flauntin’ it. Doin’ it in the middle of the road so to speak. So look I’ll go one better and do it outside the Europa Buscentre on a Tuesday night.

Ain’t none so fly they can touch me, just me an’ ma girl here wappin’ out the tunes and all yousins getting snotnosed. Perfectly terrible for the oul wenches who never had their father’s backs, but they’ll make up for it in tubbytime. Getting’ round to it is awful afterwards later see ye naw wait stop a minute yes enter please forget it.

So yeah, outside a bustop duettin’ with a sanger. Singer’s sang the truth then angels fell from heaven’s gate right into yer wee daughter’s paddlin pool. I like ma breakfast scrambled mostly like ma brains after a fourday headache holiday with the one I call woman. To me she is mummy my sassy my son my sis my sickle head pickled keep her goin keep er lit.

I’ve taken off my jacket now because it was weighin’ me down somethin awful. Nae syndrome like it but sure we’re all on the spectrum. We all got a little bit of somethin’ a wise man once told me once. I don’t know if he made that up himself or thieved it from another. These wise men, goin’ roamin’ the country, romanticising every girl that’s goin’ And them none the wiser all the same but the girls’ll get a goof. And their reward’s in heaven which is easy to reach if you’re pliable and malleable and slippy and dippy. Queen bitch mother lord of the underworld. Great grannies have beseeched you. Wild women have stood by your side. Hungrymen of all shapes and sizes have begged ye no quarter.

Started off with a thrupenny bit and now I’ve nahin but holes in ma socks. Nah ony jokin, I buy the nice kind from tk maxx on sale after cunts have rifled through them like fuck. While you’re riflin be sure to butt butt butt cartridge retrieved from a well-renowned printers, pastoral in print.

Extra surges through the heavens so heavenly in their heathened heave hoave oh fuck up like. Just you sit down and be quiet a minute, ye wee root. Ginger root? Aye haha aye ginger haha well done lad, here take a smoke.

Crispy pancakes fish fingers and smash pure boggin corned beef cherry tomatoes awful garbage grind the fake stuff ye just bung in the oven for pure handiness and craic, maybe summon up the strength one day to make a full on curry. Now for spastics its plastics expletives not explosives ye madman, you shouldn’t be drivin a taxi atall. Over now to gentle jim corbett who’ll be leading us through the history of pugilism

Gooday travellers! I was once a great man until they let a negro at me and I got walloped te fuck! Actually a more honest rendition would be to say that he outfoxed me. Ah those wily blacks! Yes, full of cunning, not man enough to go toe to toe! Somebody wise that man up. Awful propaganda. The fuckin’ media, doin’ them dirty, big surprise there. Jack Jackson beat his shite in, whatever ye called the cunt. Only seen him in black an white slip time, but he played with him, showed him how to box. Not sayin’ all black men are the best boxers, but like most of them. Gimmie Floyd gimmie Roberto gimmie Sugar Ray the fuckin’ both of them, Marvellous Marvin, Hearns and Joe Calzaghe. There’s way loads more known to boys that know. Class craic for researchin’ then ye go in the gym one day an’ they bate the head off ye. All in good faith. Knowin’ the craic. But not knowin’ that ye know it at the same time. Cause the second ye think ye know it: You’re fucked!

Glory be to the altercations! Glands be suffering under a hand like this, pulsating and the like not for bad weather. Undo your skirt-strings it’s time for the ball! Yes, the ball. The ball. Wedding bells have been known to knock, and loungers’ retreat is a haven for the unhealthy. Glim Glam Shim Sham Shove. A handed glove. Binoculars orating at a tenth of the speed of a perambulator. Withins withouts withal where with. Glib is he that hassles. And glad is she that shamoans. Boots be filled with nectar divine, the brood it deepens, they’re leapin’.

Understood of course that always it’s a thing. Mostly always a thing unless of course stated otherwise. Listen lightly at lantern’s ledge for leakings of lickleworth’s proof. A sturdy man is he who hangs limp from a ledge. And avuncular is the oily one, greased from head to toe. None since the nun sent for nonsense has such a scene been repeated. Father Trip will have his day.

In the sun they were basking with a lollipop apiece, none said a word but the silence was sleek, with contentedness everpresent anon. Memories passed between them in thoughtforms beguiling, a trifle it seemed to the walkers who passed, and wondered why not had they been asked to bask?

Crisp tender tepid tender foul tender fiendish ghoulish ghastly ginormous ghastly tender. They got their exercise through the employment of joy mostly, and though athletic their frames were not, something about the troop begged a lookin.

Furthermore to my earlier point about the five fingered glove: I only have four fingers.

I made the mistake early on, the critical error, of stubbornly refusing every piece of advice what was ever offered me. “Don’t wash the mushrooms!” bleats a stoned bestfriend, bemoaning his mother’s exhortion, and her a schoolcook, woman who oughta know. But no, it was all my way, because I am smart and stubborn and stop fucking with all my shit! That was until I heard the boxers talking about it. They said that any true great must always be willing to learn, from another. And what I come to see much later is that it can be any other, regardless of appearance or seeming status. In fact it might be a damn sight better thing to side with the opinion of him least likely lookin’ to succeed. Not every winner’s a grinner.

I could probably be doing with some advice right about now, on how to deal with this ‘piece.’ “Fuckin’ make somethin’ out of it, you lazy kant,” or “Try adding up all the sensible bits until you have a full chapter.” I’m not sure if these advices are coming directly from my mind or the characters therein (forever bleeding,) Jesus, I’m not sure of anything much nowadays. But I will say this: Take The Advice.

A second example, for noseyparkers and the like. Once I was in a band full of grown grumpy men, well accomplished in their respective fields with battlescars to prove et all. This one in particular I had trouble with suggested to me mildly one evening that perhaps I might benefit from some singing lessons. Well to say I was affronted, insulted, and all the rest would be an undergarment. I said to the cunt, something like, “Naw, that’s not for me, I have to go my own way,”(the seriously taken, the little boy least) and he rejoined, adjusting his tone in a rare sensitive moment “Well I don’t think there’s many could teach ye. It’s just…” Now I could see nothing to be gained from such an arrangement then, but looking back, yes I see how it could’ve helped me along. What I needed was: A Mentor.

And so now I go running the streets asking every Jim, Joe or Mary advice on how to tie my laces, or what’s the best way to go shoplifting(for an acting role, you understand.) Anyway, I wouldn’t call this a desperate plea, or a call out or anything. But if there is some wise all-knower out there, willing to dispense a little of that somethin’ somethin’, then whack some my way. I’ll run it through my hair or use it like Vicks Vaporub, y’see. Need sorted, is all am sayin’. Right.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have… Or was it the? No, can’t have been. Can we put it down to? Yes, agreed, certainly too many of the other? Would you agree? Yes I can also confirm that, I mean, certainly that was how I seen it. Okay, well it seems things have taken a turn for the better, should we all? Yes, let’s do that. See you next time!

Gobbled his gook, that boy. Wasn’t very thoughtful with his word springs. Yes, mostly just rushed in like some Presley imitator. Mmmn, emperor’s clothes. Benign, most benign. Was he off his? Naw, no, he was only coddled from his forties. Alright, I see, took too big a spoonful, eh? That’s the man for a beggar’s job. Oho, yes, twice round the yard without a windbush, mmn hmmn. Is there a way of making our mmnn hmmns more grammatical? No there isn’t? Okay let’s just carry on then.

So ye had a big gravy chip? Thought you were up to the house sauce challenge, eh? When who should step in but Big Handsome Pete from up the road? Yes you found your level there, m’boy, that’s when we got the measure of you. If ye’d have only remained spoonfed you’d be in a very different situation now, but no, you had to go the whole hog. Tell me this, did ye ever clear the wax out of your ears? Or hear back from Granda Patterson, who ye told us was your only friend? Fell flat, m’boy, fell flat. Pondscum, that’s what they call ye. But you’ll not be hearin’ the half of it. Can ye dig a bigger hole? Can ye lift that shovel and spade and bang out a greaser? We’ll have to see. Sit yourself down there and drink water, you’ll be needin’ yer rest.

Evermore I am bleeding. From the face. It’s fantastic when you’re bleeding, dripping. An oily yellow discharge from the hole that sews itself up in times of peace. Bleeding for peace, bleeding for pie, bleeding in the forlorn hope that one day a robin will settle upon your perch and bless you nightly with surprises. Christmas day when the Amazon man lands, dog chased him off and he’s shouting, givin’ off like an oul granda. I laughed and he grumbled, didn’t quite catch what he said but I’m sure it was all complimentary. Next up it’s scissors with a side of slimy sandwich, faces once bleeding now changing contortions most comforting yes more for the mill I’ll reap, reap heat, reap heat. And grim is he who cuts corn in the night. And leaden is the chain that hangs round the wrangler’s neck. And every gravestone a place for you to park your Self. Gifted goons a-googlin’. Beefed up tarts do twinkle. Crazed crazies getting’ all crazy when they’re sensible, will I not no yes once more that’s the one one time yes huh oof off now stap.

Wore the wrong hat to the shop yesterday. It looked fine when I was leaving. My friend had me convinced that I looked like the ex-boyfriend of some dead famous singer. “Fame, you say? Why let me stumble out into the street.” An opportunity I just couldn’t pass up.

What happened next? Well I got laughed at, of course. At least I think so, I didn’t actually hear any laughter, but something told me to drop the hat. And so I did, right after shocking the shop girl (was it her face?) And so on to Tesco and looking only at the shelves and the goods and pick up what’s needed and extras of course heft heft heft. And look anyway to quit all this bollocks and get to the bottom of it, on the way out of the shop when who should cross my path but a lady dressed in pink fur, with mickey mouse ears, and a fella with big mad mutton chops. It worked! There was a reason. I knew I should’ve worn that hat.

Right down to business, too many things. I wore too many funky things. For a shop walk like. Me ma told me and I should’ve listened, ye only need one funky thing, one wee bit, then blend. Dressin’ ridiculous perhaps best kept for club dates and Pride. Mother’s pride, the whole damn brood. Buckaw!

Glisten. Sparkle. And subside. That’s an insult. I mean an order. Hard to know what way anything means nowadays, just blankity blankin ur way along like a deadbeat Michael Barrymore, legend that he was. There’ll be no strangers found dead in my swimming pool cause all’s I’ve gots is a puddle out the back. Of course lines can be drawn in the muck dirt and elsewhere either as a marker pointer or paw print, simply as a way of expressing one’s self which is what we’re here for after all. Excuse me did I just state a somethink? I may have done, but my eraser has gone out to play and so I must continue. A stale sandwich will suffice when starvink. A starved whale may betray your most earnest sincerities. A couched bloke can cure your cobbler’s creep. And a landmine will filter through, breakin the legs off ye. Onced yeve lost them there’s no goin back. Got to hobble along on a makeshift skateboard, pickin pennies from the people. I’ve a glinch the whoompwerchers won’t find, and it hasn’t been inserted up my you knew who. Anyhose, that’ll do for this evening, haven’t ate all day, gonna have steak an wheaten with maybe a side of beans, though poached eggs have been threatening.

Kutcha!

Gangsters. What are they for? Some say the gangster is a little man that lives in your coal bunker; others insist he a delinquent of the humanoid kind, forever twinkling. Well I’ve never met one so I couldn’t tell you the truth. Graphs show that things are changing, like this little one here that I drew (you can’t see it, it’s in my pocket). The machines are a rumblimbling and the folks they are a rambling with straw hats hay in the mouth and a drawn out feg. I haven’t worn lipstick in quite a while, but if you were to put me in a certain situation whereby the only way out was to fill the carpet with bicarbonate of soda and hoover the whole house I very well might do the opposite.

Now here look I’ve a question for ye. What makes a man moo. Who’s pullin’ the strings here? Is it them boys up in Stormont who pretend not even to be there, or could it be them other boys in the street playin bangbang? I’ve got a dog now and now everything smells like dog the bed smells like dog my hands smell like dog all ma clothes are dirty and there’s a baby on the way. Fuckin dogs. Used to have a cat but I hadda loan it out, country cat town cat wasn’t no city slick gangster cats scared it away and now the dog reigns supreme. Mike Tyson used to have a big cat but that’s cause he was fit to handle it smokin blunts flat out.

And now here comes the second cup of the day and so sense must be spoken. Spoken must be sense with umbilical chords on the strain all the way flat out. Yessum. All rods leading to the promised land and netherwords spoken in the gloom. Hoom hoom gloom bloom away back to schlep!

Are we quite finished? Are you prepared now to take your medicine? No ma’am no I can’t be fucked. Well here you’re fukin’ getting it now bend over ya wee k00nt!

So look, I’ve had my injection, and am now quite willing to admit that I have done wrong. I done the wrong thing, like a stupidhead, and now I’ve got to pay the price. I’m not sure what all this entails, just that something is changing. There’s a shift of some kind. I know better now to look to a friend for suggestions, clues and craic. Bein’ a stubborn bastardo of the highest degree will get you nowhere, fast! So off I go now on my merry way to see what needs done and do my best at doin’ it. Mightn’t always be perfect, or maybe never atall, but better to have half of nothin than nothing at all.

Signing off,
Schmecklan