There is a ghost that grips my balls. Whenever I perform, an etheric palm reaches between my legs, and locks my bollocks in a tight hold. I confess this only now as the visitations have ceased, and with their absence, so it seems, whatever charisma I may have had is also gone. How to seduce a spirit? With endless experiments in black chicanery. Teaching witless peasants how to spell using the ouja board. Nightly seances entertaining long-gone moguls and extinguished unheralded would-be stars. I massaged the grotty toes of Orson Welles just last week to no avail. Sent ghouls in search of a 20 stone Marlon Brando only to be greeted by an Apache squaw. But look, regardless of my success, or lack thereof, it is of the utmost importance that young pretenders become aware of the spiritual milkings that assist in squeezing out you finest produce. Get no grand ideas of your own inner power, acknowledge the groping ghouls, salute them as you see off the thousands of well-wishers that come to witness you purge. Holy Ghost.

—————————————————————————————————————-

– Filled ‘er up with glue.

– Is that right, aye? Saucy boy.

– Naw, he actually filled her. Filled her up, with PVA.

– Jesus Christ. Both holes?

– Polyfiller for the arse.

—————————————————————————————————–

– Out of touch? We’re talking about a man who though Youtube Shorts was a line of swimwear.

– Look, he’s the man of the moment. He…embodies the zeitgeist. There is something essential in his every utterance. As for his foibles? Why they simply fufill the caveat that every man most be fallible. If he were to be too perfect, it just wouldn’t work. Look sharp, here he comes…

– Fellas. We enjoying this heatwave? I near popped an umbrella this morning until I remembered we’re living in a country of closed-minded bastards. Huh?

– Excellent, sir. I’m sure nobody would have batted an eyelid.

– Murphy. Nice return on those last minute trades last week, tell your wife I said hello. McPartland. Shouldn’t you be at home today? I was hoping to avoid you.

– Very good, sir. Would you like to see today’s options?

– Hit me, Patrick. Help me pick a winner. Nice tie. Matching socks? Respect, P.

– *aside* Should we just have him murdered? I know a guy…

– *secretive return* No. Let’s ride this bastard all the way to the finals.

—————————————————————————————-

I drank a can
Of pish
In anticipation of
A wile mad rush

In spite of
Not having had
A solid shite
In weeks.

I used to
Like most men
Enjoy
A bitter lager

Nowadays
I prefer
Some fancy pish
Who’s chemical flavouring

Wins favour
With the traditional
Guttural distortions
That swerve

One from
The belief
That he
Is unaffected

This disease
In it’s various
Permutations
Nevertheless

Narrows you
Down as
Just one
More Anonymous

Victim.

-Ye call that rain?

-What do you call it?

-I call that a refreshing breeze, the likes of which I’d walk through bollock naked. With ease.

-The drains are overflowing. There’s pigeons drowning. It’s called climate change, old timer.

-The only change is in the sufficiencies of a man’s lot and the degradation of young attitudes, due to a few mild seasons of winter, that ye warranted your complaints with, so as now to give excuses and the want for robust natures. I watch the news, son, as closely as I watch the movements of the skies, never mind those of me own weakened bowels, owing of course to the poisoned liquors than yous are passing off as decent drink these days. The news is to be half-watched, cynically, then disregarded with the ordering of the next pint. Now fuck off, ya wee wank.

-Right, Granda. You have another pint sure. I’m away to save the world from modern problems.

-An eye to the past my son. Right ye are.

——————————————————————————————–

I picked the schnotter from out me nose, and ate it shame-free in the comfort of a water closet. Freed now of all familial shackles, my mind buzzed gently with quaint turns of phrase that shone with that familiar trace of promise…

Never take yourself too seriously son, otherwise you’ll think they’re all laughing at you.

-Standin’ up for the common man, aren’t ye, kid?

-None of your business, to be fair.

-Aye, but to be fair you wouldn’t have half of them tramps back to your house.

-Would you?

-Nah, but I don’t spend all my days writing wee stories about them.

-They’re alright from a distance. You should soften your heart towards them.

-The last time I softened my heart towards a tramp like that I lost my wallet.

-Aye well just try and remember they’re human too.

-Animals I’d say. You’ve a lot to learn son. Give it a few years and your own naive heart will be a bit more discerning.

———————————————————————————————-

This fine craft stout, a newly minted classic, has been deliberately flavoured with the distinct delicate stink of a secretary’s shoe. Will men savour this rare craic at the cost of their working class credentials? A surety indeed, if women continue to insist on navigating the rim of crystal glasses, with the kind of intent that leads inevitably to an erotic encounter with the desired ape-like groundsman.

———————————————————————————————–

Eamon fuckin’ McGlone. The biggest eejit that ever walked this town. Able as he was and all with words, office-management skills and folder-filling.

If you ever had the misfortune to meet the man in a pub then God love ye. Shites himself on entry, chats up strangers in an effort to scunder you to oblivion; berates immigrants with some skewed idea of a modern caste system…

The event was heavily petitioned by feminists, but Eamon didn’t give a fuck. He was up in the green room knockin’ one out.

Event organiser, poet of renown. Reviled and reached for, in selfish grasps for some favour or other. A scoundrel. And a wonder as to how he managed it. Blackmail and threats some speculated. Wouldn’t put anything past the artful codger.

———————————————————————————————–

-Did you hear that fella pontificating?

-Aye, was good to get it out of the way.

-A necessity of mcliterary schooling, say whut?

-Mnn. Buuuuuuuh.

-A solid shoulder in the direction of national acceptability.

-Is right.

-He’s fit to scrap though all the same. The pen wielding pugilist.

-The scribe. Writes a wee prophecy then in like Calzaghe.

-Bamboozles the opponent with historical nous then knocks ’em over with a tasty wee combination.

-Ye’ve to give him his dues.

-Aye he did write that Eurovision winner right enough.

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