So yeah it’s all about your keys. Ye wanna be danglin’ a good oul setta keys, bai. Yuh, am tellin’ ye, nahin’ a woman likes better to see than a man come walkin’ in the room with a big pile a keys hangin’ off his belt. And nothin’ better to inspire awe, and respect, in your fellow man either. But it can all be taken as a bitta fun too.

-Fuck, bai, some setta keys on ye!
-At’s right, aye, I’d say ye’ve been round a few corners alright.
-Aw now, these here’s only for messin’ about, ye wanna see the ones I have at home!

So yip you’ve got your keys there and you’ve a good startin’ point for conversation and that.

-Aye that’s right. I’m a safe-cracker. Eh? Crackin’ safes in ma spare time? Ye know what am sayin’?

Or anything like that. It’s the sort of thing ye can take anywhere with a bit of imagination. Tell ye one thing more a woman likes better in a man than a big setta keys: a fuckin’ moustache. That’s right, ye boy ye, the ‘tache has well and truly returned! and some of us are askin’, ‘Did it ever really go away?’ Nahin’ like a big oul soup strainer to get the girls gigglin’. They love it.

And ye know some men ask me, ‘Deirdre, is it really necessary for you to be carrying all them keys? Seeing that ye don’t even work a proper job or anything? Or for ye to wear a boilersuit? Is all that really necessary?’ And I say ‘Sure wha? Don’t I be workin’ fuckin’ jobs up an’ down the length a this country that you wouldn’t even know about? And you not even wearin’ a proper moustache or nahin, and now you’re trying to butter me with the same breadstick as what you were, for your sins?’ And they’ve nothin’ to say back to that so I just moesy on an ye can be sure that there’s many a woman countin’ down the minutes till she hears my keys come a-jinglin’. Me in the big black boots an’ all. Proper article.

But anyhow, I got a letter from the parish priest, expressing concern over some of my recent behaviour about the village. Poor man seems to think there’s somethin’ wrong wi’ me, and him stuck up in that parochial house wi’ no women an’ no dancin’ nor nahin’. I say he’d give his right hand to be in my shoes for one night only, and I’ll tell ye what, I’ve a right mind to go on up there and tell him exactly what I think, and to maybe give thon maid of his, Dolores, a good seein’ to, while am at it. But me ma in heaven, God rest her, wouldn’t have it, so I’ll say a quick decade of the rosary, and pray for the poor man’s soul instead.

But before I do I’ll say this: For every door that’s locked in life there is a key to it that fits. So should ye ever be in diffs, feelin’ a bit closed in like, just you reach down for the appropriate key, though it may take ye a while sometimes to find what you’re lookin’ for; and here: if the key don’t fit… then hoof ‘er down to fuck!

You’d be hard pushed to come up with a better title. Yep, that is quality title-age. Pure shite. Hi. Aye. Ano. Wise. Up? Sucka!

You’ve come this far so it’s best now to hold on. Hold the fuck on cause there’s nowt else for it. Just have the pure laugh. Drink wee smoothies an all brighten your skin up wonderous. Wunderbar breakneck speed gone wah? Talk all funny an do wee dances. Acquire the taste for outdated rarities and wince. Crumple up paper with the back end of your toes, it’s awful satisfactory so tisss.

Yep and be sure always to advise those nearest and dearest on the dangers of delinquents, do. Write back to all whom enquire upon your wellbeing and whereabouts, reassuring each that a ‘spot on the pew’ awaits. Anyhow, regardless of any humdrummery where without goest the ganch, reach on and reach until the master will teach and you’ll fetch him a peach being pet now it’s sit and submerge. Divulge, don’t diverge, explurge most explicitly, lick stamps go quick, to the office see Pat, spill milk on his cat, wipe shite on the mat and make sure your amends, this means no pretence. At least, no more than is absolutely necessary.

Yas, you see you see sometimes, and sometimes you don’t, and most difficult it is to sit still while your will is so weak. What’s the peak time of operation for this particular callback service anyway? But question you may, the waters they rise, you stifle their cries, the five children inside of you, you weep, confessions you keep, the clock ticks a little…

It’s an awful grey heaviness the likes of which you’ve never before felt. And so the question comes again, will it rain? Will you pop the brolly just in time, or soak to your skin and choke on brine? It’s nearly time.

So just about the moment when it’s killing you to lift the pen but you can’t move you’ve been caged in, they say it’s you, but you know it’s them, now what? Got to speak, man. Got to spill them guts. You’re trembling. That’s how you know it’s the good stuff. Let’s inspect this thing, why don’t we? Make a little inquisition. Be brave.

Anyway, you can’t be the only one. Tomorrow there shines surely a brighter sun. Just speak your truth, it’s killing you, I know. Just let it go, man. Take it all apart, analyse it, if you feel it helps you. Then smile. Next thing you know you’ll be helping somebody who needs it a whole lot more than you do, and you mightn’t even know it. But if you do cop on, it’s a real nice feeling, you know it. Keep ‘er lit.

Some people are so guarded. I asked a friend the other day what kind of juice he likes best and he told me to go fuck myself. I didn’t take it too much to heart. Another guy I stopped on the street to ask the time – he punched me right in the face. A little harsh perhaps, but again, I shook it off. Women I have more success with, and children, really I have a great rapport with children. In general, I mean. Problem is you can’t readily approach a child for friendship in these times, so yeah, I mostly keep to myself, these days.

-Why do you have such a low opinion of yourself?
-I don’t have a low opinion of myself, I’m king of the fuckin’ world, baby!

The other thing is that backwards banana scrambling that some are so fond of. You know with gooby eyes when fools go wandering, and they have their little trip, and it all seems so safe and secure yet wonderous, and by the end of it all they’re salivating like tired out children? Yeah, I’ve heard that the effect of such an exercise, what it can do to the brain, is pretty much near disastrous, and that it’s the sort of thing that can’t be undone all too easily. Gotta be careful, is all I’m saying, got to be care full.

Here. When I speak to a doctor I like to give him the assurance that I am a man of learn-ed leanings, whose shrewdery knows no bounds. It usually takes the good man about five minutes to assert his intellectual dominance however, and I am forced to yield to his benign superiority, and to yield also to the suggestion that perhaps those cloudy notions of my own self-image that I held to so dearly were erroneous, if not, absurd.

So yeah, fraternizing with doctors, you’re always gonna have trouble there. Other question is, is he shitin’ himself the other end of it? Tryin’ to come across like a good ole boy and one of the lads, or perhaps a muso if not a brickie might’ve been concert pianist fuck me he coulda been anything. But he chose the law. The medical law that is, feelin up old ladies whose only complaint of a headache was rewarded with… and tellin wee boys that they’re stupid for the rest of their lives. Then they go home to their cold wives for cold cuts and cold cans of banana cream dreamin of the banana boat holiday you never had the tanned girl gone missing you’ll never get another go because the practice needs you and where does all the money go the standard of living but oh so empty why the fuck.

But here the craic must be good, the oul doctors in the hospital playin pranks an all, letting on some boys been diagnosed wi cancer. Bit far maybe, but probably get some laugh after it, mad cunts. Runnin about playin mad with the machinery and chattin up the nurses smuggling in steaks singin wee songs havin the pure craic patch adams the craic’d be good like. End of the day it’s just a bunch a lads, few women knockin about too, the whole thing havin the craic. Patients them near dyin but sure ye’d keep them goin an all, you pure busted workin a 48 hour shift. Aye, availability of the best drugs goin, only the purest of good morphine, intravenous, sure them boys wouldn’t get addicted or nahin. Too sensible a boy a doctor than to get stuck on it and then maybe even like a wee sneaky beer in behind the curtain. Draw thon curtain there and  we’ll all get a wee sip. Get them tunes kickin. Aye I say they’d have a good oul laugh.

So yep gettin’ back to that gooby eyed thing. It’s a weird one like, gettin’ all gooby. I kinda like it. But here, like the whole package, everything that comes along with it…I mean, is that all normal craic? Hard to say… Not much for it but to keep ‘er pinned. ‘Troubled times will come, Troubled times will go.’ Yeap, try hard to stay alive. And keep the faith, hafta keep the faith. Haha.

“Clickbait Victims, in their infancy, are very much disposed to a pre-forgetting of all that they encounter. They scour the web in search of their next hit like rabid victims of heroin dependency, bandaged round the ankles, pulling themselves closer to that poison plum with only the draggage of their chins for grip. Recent reports show that as many as 70% of British children are currently enchained, with a further 30% showing signs of pisstoffery.”

-Turn that shite off!
-Aye turn that shite off.
-Yep off ta fuck.
-Yese wan a game a cards?
-Yep
-Yep
-Yep
-Right who’s go first
-Do mine, do mine, do mine
-Kay lad. Ye sure ye want to know?
-Yep. Am ready. Yep.
-Kay. Here we go, iiiiiiiit’s Tarot Time!

-Okay. Your first wife is gonna sue for ten million
-Wa?
-Aye. Then, she’s gonna ride all yer mates
-Fuck off!
-Yep. Then. She’s gonna ride yer brother.
-Fuck aaaaaffffff!
-Yep. Then.
-Wa?
-She’s gonna die.
-Fuck.
-Wa?
-Serves her right.
-Okay. Do ye want me to go on?
-Ahhh, fuck… Lemme hink… …Yep.
-Right. You’re gonna become a millionaire.
-Right.
-Then. You’re gonna lose it all to yer wife.
-Aha.
-Then. You’re gonna make it all back again playin poker, like Dan Bilzarian.
-Holy fuck.
-Yep. Loadsa women. Happy enough?
-Aye.
-Good stuff, stick that back on there.

“I gave all me fuckin money to the orphans!”
“That’s very admirable, son. Good for you.”
“They’re runnin’ around in my good guddies!”
“Well, a well-shod orphan is surely a sight for sore eyes in these blighted times.”
“Have you any orphans?”
“No, sir, the only children I have are belonging to me and are fully accounted for in keeping with government regulations.”
“Aye, you’re sorted. Do ye want any orphans?”
“No. No I don’t. This is Fourstall McJohnstonstuff, reporting for NewsFirstNews.”

So yip, that there was just something that happened, or mighta happened. What really happened though was, I was thinkin what a shite day it was. A real stinkin grey Northern Irish day. Then I thought, wouldn’t it be deadly if we lived in Compton? Like switched places with all the Gs in Compton? Then insteada doin’ buckets we’d be smoking blunts, and drinkin forties insteada buckfast. An all the brothers would be over here probably glad to get a break and enjoying the exotic craic over here, like to them. So aye we’d be in Compton, good tunes and that, good weather. All us boys strapped te fuck in case the cops come, not givin a fuck about the 5-0 cause we’d be strapped to fuck, like yer man outta Fallin Down with the rocket launcher. Anyway, it’d be nice for a wee break and just to see what their craic was like an all. Fresh reputation, new girls, sun fuckin blastin. Us all doin hiphop flat out, the brothers back home doin trad an shit. Be good like. Ye wanna be careful tho too, them boys over in Compton don’t mess about. Fuckin Crips an Bloods, no messin like. Shoot ye just for lookin the wrong way at them. So aye it wouldn’t be all that different except it’d be sunny. Nice wee break like.

-What’s yer job, mate?
-Uh, I sing.
-Ye sing? What like wee songs an all?
-Um, yip.
-What do ye do, Johnny Cash, fuckin Elvis?
-Naw I write me own.
-Write me own. Fuckin ballacks. Nobody wants to hear that shite, get the fuckin tunes on lad, raaaaa.
-Right. Do you sing?
-Do a fuck. Couldn’t sing ma way out of a paper bag. But here, dancin? Best around.
-Well here do ye wanna join my band? We need a dancer…
-Fuckin what. What ye payin me?
-The pay’s shite, but ye’ll get more possy than Steven Nolan.
-Fuckin sign me up, leeeeeddddddd.

Got a fuckin’ job. Got a fuckin’ job. Now all the other job boys wanna hang out and talk to me and stuff. Bein’ a man like. Talkin’ like a man. Using well-honed mental tactics to keep each other at bay. I wear a shirt and tie. He wears a boiler suit. I would say he’s less than but he makes more than me as he’s a he he. What’s a he he? A he he is somebody who has taken it upon themselves to dedicate their entire existence to the devotion of manhood. His name’s Dickie. Nobody fucks with Dickie. I spat in my bosses coffee just the other morning then smiled right back in his face. I don’t even hate him that much I was just refining my skills. Sometimes when a man goes to say something I will interrupt him, especially if my wife is close. Other times I will stand tall and erect, giving full range to my carriage and plumage. I long to talk politics with the guy from cubicle five, but the guy from cubicle five has nicer shoes than me, and I know fuck all about politics. He uses words I don’t understand and barely even looks my way. There are moments throughout the working day when I will feel an unbearable upsurge of emotion, this I suppress in order to keep testosterone flowing freely. I study the anatomy of unavailable women. I read books on subjects I should know nothing about so that I can vent in a manner that befits modern living. I am a master of technology, nothing escapes my keen eye. I am also dying, of a disease so rare that one Chinese doctor turned in his resignation, seriously ill himself that he could not categorise nor label it. My time is coming. My time to go now. So long.