More detail than is frankly necessary

Pearse Station, 6 minutes, Behan can wait while I go for a piss. I hate these jacks, the bluest lit in all of Dublin, a lasting tribute to the resident junkies of the surrounding area.

 

There’s an aul fella, raincoat and all, at the urinal. Bastard’s standing right in the middle, ignorant. I glance at the floor of the bog, she’s burst her banks. I’ll have to eek out some space by the end of that stainless steel trough after all.

 

Out pops junior, while my co-habitants stream stutters to my left. Part of me wants to make some quip about his age, bad piping or even feel some sort of sympathy. Maybe I could write a lament for the loss, the thievery, of ageing. But I can’t, because the truth is I won’t be able to get going until he stops stammering, gives up and moves on, or forms a decent flow. The nerves of youth. We’re a pathetic sight, the two of us.

 

So there I am, rooted a little further to the right than I’d like, jiggling my empty rattle in the vain hope of making some noise.

 

He looks over. A strange thing to do. Even stranger not to try and hide it. Downright bizarre to just stare like that. He knows I haven’t started, is he trying to psyche me out? Knacker, I’m not backing down. I feel my eyes harden, shoulders spread, I’m gonna piss and I’m not the type to be intimidated.

 

Then what I didn’t expect. His right hand, following his eyeline, reaches down. For a second I was stunned.

 

I bat it away, button up and turn to him. So shocked, my voice has hit a tone untouched since before puberty, and the pace of a gunshot. “Whaddafuckyoua’?”

 

I’m towering over him now, face screwed up, eyes blazing and fists clenched. He lets out a whimper, a scared old man’s whimper. Not the false sniveling apology of a sex pest. But the frightened yelp of a feeble old man, who’s made a genuine mistake, in the filthiest public toilet in Dublin. All malice in me fades to naught.

 

I walk out, I don’t wash my hands, I just want out of there, fast.

 

I go down to the furthest end of the platform, which to be fair, is where I normally go anyway. And with Behan, I’ve already forgotten the old man by the time they fine me for fare evasion. 

 

Which, incidentally, I felt was a much greater intrusion on my rights.

Worst DART ride ever

First some dirty aul cunt grabs my knob in the Jaxx at Pierce and then I lose my ticket and get done for fair evasion. That’d be 50 yo’s and another story for the doctor please-thanks but fuck off.

 

I’m not paying it. I’m gonna file myself a grievance.

 

Sorry, did I mention some aul lad grabbed my knob? Dirty cunt. Any other day that’d be a major cause of grievence, however, it’s been completely over-ridden by my outright hatred of having to pay Iaranroad Eireann anything. Shower of dirt buckets

I believe in better

Some people are born cunts. Ghengis Khan, hitler etc. not very nice people.

BUT

 

I believe that man is shaped by his environment. Therefore, we can change tomorrows world for the better.

 

And I left a party because I’m too drunk, or they’re too drunk, to get it across.

There’s no place like home

Not much older than myself, she’s one of the 60 odd per cent of my family who currently reside abroad for one reason or another. 

Herself: “ay, London’s fine, but its not like home. It’s not a very friendly place.”

Myself:  ”you mean Belfast?”

Herself again: “eh, well, certain parts of Belfast”

eh….too soon?

michaeljacksonjokes.wordpress.com

I’ll let myself out

Head shop review; Raz

Didn’t get high at all, bar one fit of giggles early on. Other side affects include black snot, hives and one of the strangest posts this website has ever seen.

However, I was able to talk on the phone to my boss just two hours after getting home purely from the amount of caffeine I’ve ingested over the past twelve hours. And I was going for a full 24 hours on what was, now that I think of it, an empty stomach.

Still, not top of the list for drugs to do again. I need to get some sleep.

That thing we don’t talk about

I was brought up to fight. No matter what stands in front of you, even if it’s hopeless, you put your head down and give it your best. Give it your worst. Give it everything, until it consumes all that you are.

That’s all fair and good when you’ve got a war to fight, Brits to kill, Uni’s to hate. But what to do when you’re the peace generation, when your parents are determined not to pass on their prejudices to you. You’re geared for a war that you cannot, on principal, fight.

What fills the gap? You can’t love because, in my case, you’ve been wrenched from every home you’ve known. I have the same friends now as when I was 15, because that’s the longest I’ve ever had a friend, and I’m petrified of losing it all again. Because I have lost them all, over and over again. You don’t move from Northside to Southside without losing people. You don’t move from southside renting to southside resident without losing people. And you sure as fuck don’t move from southside underdog to southside poshy without losing people. I did it all before I was thirteen.

I’m petrified of being stuck in one place, I’m petrified of being alone, I’m petrified of being left behind and, more than anything, I’m petrified of relying on anyone else. Jesus, I’d despise and destroy a man before I told him I needed him. I have to go forward because to stay still is intolerable and to look back is painful.

But I know all this, so I should be able to do something about it; right?

Wrong. I have a bump on my temple from the time I knocked myself out, a scar for each knuckle on my right hand(from walls, don’t worry, I don’t believe in hurting others), a scar on my forehead from one of the times I tried to make myself forget and I don’t know anything better to do than hurt myself. Because the lads don’t get it, the mottes want to think they can fix me, and nobody can tell me what to do.  

Nobody. Because I reject orders by default, and ignore advice for fear of owing anyone anything.

 

I was built for fighting, but with no one to fight I hit myself. Because I reckon I should be able to take it, if I can’t I’m weak. If it doesn’t hurt; it’s because I’m weak. If I’m to be anything, it’s to be strong. That’s easy; puff chest, hard stare, big balls. That’s what I’m good at.

But staying around, moving on, admitting defeat, accepting apologies, admitting you’ve got friends….I’m sorry, I’m too much of a coward for that bullshit*

 

*sorry, I’ve been up for 23 hrs and 43 minutes. I’m hammered and have to work in 2 hrs. Sorry for wasting your time, then again, this is more for me than you

Buzz

Woop woop, I found a new job, nearly a dream job actually. I’m getting paid to write*, which is amazing. However, I have to write an awful lot for not much pay so things may be getting very quiet around here over the next while.

 

So eh…fuck off then

 

*not much but a result nonetheless

It just does something to me

Reggae that is. It has an effect on me, I can’t help myself. The music doesn’t grab me, that’s not its style. It puts its arm around my shoulder and we go down and up, altogether now, down and up. You feel your body drop low and your arms go high, your booty bumpedy bump while your hips swing slow. Everybody’s smiling, laughing or just plain gettin’down. And then, after an hour or two-it may even be as late as the next day-you really really need to shit.

No, really.

I’ve had about 7 today, I wasn’t even drinking*. Had an amazing burger in Ricks though, ugh, made my week…om nom nom

 

*eh….pinch of salt?

Take a good hard look at what you’ll never be

My dad has two axes, they’re for cutting different sized pieces of wood-now that’s manly.