My sense of smell is being put to the test. I smell people now. It’s hard. Guy in front of me in the shop the other night… stinkin’. He wore sandals and a Nike knapsack, 20 years old by my guessing. His hair was greased black, and the collective stench, of cheap emollients, was made only more offensive by the fact that it was masking what must’ve been weeks of untended body odour.

 Usually, you might get intrigued by the sight of some colourful nobody passing you in the street, and maybe wonder for a moment what their life consists of, filling out the details with your imagination perhaps? In this instance, it was the stench, the fucking stench of this greasy fuckin’ bastard that set the whole thing off, for the most part. – -Trading in cheap perfumes, illicit hand-luggage, cheap knock-off gear, klobber, better than the real thing, believe me.- – I mean I shouldn’t be judgemental, but this was one horrid cunt. At least have the decency to spare a stranger the insult. A torrent of thick fermented scents. And it’s not like the guy didn’t know any better, or was homeless or something. He was just a dirty fucking bastard. That’s all.

 But anyway, I sat down on this bus, today, to eat my foil-wrapped sausages when I got assailed by the pungent foot odour of an oul crabbie knacker. Stewartstown son, as it turned out. Seemed like a dead on enough fella, holes in his joggers, but fuck me the smell of him. See, I’d let him away with it, he was decent. But see that other? A smarmy bastard. Ye could just tell. But here, gonna have to wait to change buses before tuckin’ in to these sausages, be lucky to get a good breather in between times too.

The driver was a stickler for mask-wear-age. I told him mine was in my bag, he insisted that I put it on. So I had to go through the whole rigamarole of hokin’ through my own wee khaki knapsack, sausages and all, looking for this imaginary mask. He eventually let me go on, but not without a stern warning. Jobsworth bastard. Or maybe he just cares about the COVID. Nah, I think He cares about THE RULES! Know to look at him. It’s a lovely mild rainy evening. Kinda nice and blue. Yeah, don’t give up smoking, keep them nostrils blocked up to fuck.

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Right so I’ve had a wee sausage now and I feel a bit better about the whole affair. Crazy what an empty stomach will do to ye. Hang on till I have another bite here. Yeah, quality meats. Finely butchered meats. Haha. The choice cuts!

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Got a clean clear mind today. Clear clean water for to quench your thirst. Let the tap run a little longer baby. A chirping quartet of busy-minded schoolgirls alight. Peace. Glad to see the back of them. Not in that way. The peace, I mean. The Peace. Where are The Peace Police? Night and day now the difference.

The Peace Police are a loosely-banded, er, band, of bland bandits. Their chief concern is the commissioning of finely engineered works of subtle psychic defence. Defence against what? Why the pie-eyed dour-lords of remorse of course! They communicate mostly through the rolling of eyes. This is not a force you can join voluntarily. They sweep you up and in you see, long before you’ve chosen your GSCEs. These golden-wigged, goose-fed God-pimps pick you out at birth, or before. You know the score.

Achieving promotion within the branch entails dredging the details of your entire shameful past, and bringing it before the committee, who sit at times undecided in a tree-fort awaiting. They say a great weight is lifted once you’ve let go this compile. What they fail to inform you of is that a weight ten times the size of what you previously hefted will soon replace it. Good luck, my friend. Love and Light.