Mad ass craic that be’s happening. Southern voices. Southern faces. Nice to see some different faces. Features. The pinched cheeks of the ladies of the north have lost their appeal. There used to be a word that I had to describe the peculiarity of an East Belfast girl’s noise but I cannot remember it. English voices now mixed about the place, back towards the end of the carriage. Foreign voices. I belong on this train. More trains more travelling more thought more observation more of everything I need it and it’s mine. My right. I owe it to myself. But it will come. In it’s own time.

I’m an observationalist. A skilled observationalist. Nada thing eludes the keen eye of this poor feel-it-all! And as for my ears? Well, they’re pretty much unfaultable. I mean you couldn’t fault them. Not if you were to apply scientifical tests. From the government. You couldn’t. I have good ears. Out of the window I see trees trees houses trees houses, I see blind men red men yellow men, green men especially, that’s my speciality. A thousand thoughts and not one pen to piss through. Urethra injection. Stool sample pending.

When there’s people on the train you’ll write better, he said, and he said it fine fucking rightfully. The bastard. The successful fucking bastard. It’s a darn good thing he isn’t goodlooking as-well or I’d have to murder him. Lush trees pylon please. Don’t miss the trees for the pylons. This country’s like a golf course. Bout time I seen this side of it. Skies grey but not too bad to the point of a deathwish. Fuck the intelligent. We must procreate. Crossbreed the intelligent with the coarse, it’s the only way forward. Or bring them up in poverty. We’re trying to rear a country of writers here for fuck’s sake. Jesus I’m repeating myself, but who’s counting. I’m on a streak. I’m on a streak and the handsome bastard two seats across from me is beat. He too has long hair, but rugged, now loping sideways as he mopes. Enjoy your frown, you fuck.

There’s a nice pylon, pity about the cows. A big pile of gravel. In and amongst the fields of green and gold. Good Jesus. Tomato in this two pound sandwich. It’s a baggy sandwich you see for it was only two pound. It was sold me by the Germans. There goes a lorry bearing the name of the man I avoided in the street earlier. Stopped in a puddle. They’ve stopped until this puddle dries up. Four men out to fix it. Bushes gravel bottles stones sticks berries flowers. An oul bit of yellow piping all worn and broke. Sewerage.

There’s a man and woman sitting next to me and every time I write something funny they cheer in a quiet sort of way. He’s Irish her a brit. She dims her voice just a little to shamefully ask a biscuit. –I am an insane person. I am admittedly insane. I am high functioning insane.– Now I feel the same as I slobber my sandwich cause it’s all quiet just before this train starts up again. Fuck it, go full Christy. That is, feel none. ‘These are the hands of the tired man.’ Yep, here they are. ‘This is the old man’s shroud.’ Here it is, somewhat visible. ‘These are the eyes of the blood crazed tiger, staring at the maddening crowd.’ Yes. Yep. Mnnhmm. That’s him alright, there he is. Good talker, Christy D, hope to get a chat with him someday.

So, aye. People say this’ll be the making of me. Good people. The bastards that are living in my head rent-free insist otherwise. It does change the head a little bit. Time to man up. Just happens. Good thing. There’s one cunt lives in my head and I’d love to kill him. Well, not all the way kill him, but just embarrass him a bit. He’s probably dying on the inside anyway. Like me. He’s got to be. The cunt. Pleasing to the eye are the sloping green hills of Killarney. Though we’re on the way to Newry I like the way that sounds. Old tin roofs. Rusting iron roofs. Enjoy them while you can. Never neglect to consider a taxi driver’s counsel. Blurry trees, yellow sometimes.

The Gaelic games. The finest athletes on earth. All gone to waste. Portydown station. The brakes make a big ‘woooo’-ing ghost’s sound, dragged out to fuck of course, in true Portadown town style. Jesus, everything’s so brown. The stainless steel is brown in Portadown. All art is a collaboration. Is there any truth in the preceding statement? No, you imbecile! It’s a one man drag, baby. Dig in your heels, next stop, Portadown! One of the porters appears to be wielding some sort of electronic tabletennis bat. Madman. –Hi, my name’s Declan Corr and I’ve just had a baby. Thank you for the continued facebook likes and support. P.s if you want you can take a quick read at my literary thesis consisting of dumbfounding insights and chin-tickling intrigue, only sixty cents a centimetre, ye sap!– Nothing like a birthday or anniversary to sail your crappy art boat upon. Take the fuckers for all they’re worth. Nice big field of rushes. Green n’ gold. Splodge of muckpuddle. Looks cow-dungish. This is an excerpt. You are now reading an excerpt.

No, look. This is just a bit of banter. A bit of banter with the boys, eh? I was once a promising young chap, once upon a time ago. Before I got the working-class hero treatment. Eh? Can’t win. Now I’m just going to write in this and fuck be to the lot of ye. If you like it you like it and if you don’t you can go and hang yourself by your tiny wee dick. And pray to the good lord Satan for it to grow, ye fuckin horse’s ballacks! Oh it’s all coming out today. Yes, indeed it is. Cryptocurrency. I’m into cryptocurrency. Playing the markets, you know? Yes, I’ve always been a bit savvy that way. Never one to pass up a well-confided tip. Striding the streets in my pinstripe, wagging the brolly at likely codgers. Yes, one of the boys. Always. A big brown field. Jesus there’s a big brown field. With a load of birds flying over it. Useless bastards, eating all our crops. Tin shack, Mississippi style. Will attend later and fill with hobos. Woah ho! Plastic covered haystack! Sitting, in the corner of a field. Woohoo! Whimpering Wolf. Ole Johnny Whimpers. A farm. An unremarkable farm. No charm that farm. Winding stream amongst the hills, sheep dotted about, fucking around not knowing what they’re at really. Me drawing brainpower from the whole lot of them. ‘Let’s collaborate!’

Drugdealer on the train yesterday, would love to hear another one today. A stony cottage, many years have you braved the stormy colds. Bushes trees forestry…