helena says
Saturday, 29 November 2014
Monday, 27 October 2014
Bella's Flea treatment
Saturday, 11 October 2014
Gravedigging Under the Mancy Way
Writing by my favorite punk
Luv u Babe
Luv u Babe
Cold rapid hands
Draw back one by one
The bandages of dark
I open my eyes
Still
I am living
At
the centre
Of a wound still fresh
Octavio
Paz
Prologue
Spare
Some Loose Change
It’s fuckin freezing under this blanket. I exhale slowly and watch my
breath curl away like smoke. My god, I wish I had a cig. As I check the street
for promising free-fag material, a group of evening-out wankers push out of the
next door take away.
-Got a spare cig mate?
A Burberry-jacketed cunt with a
number one finished in bleach-blonde offers cigarettes around his mates from a
full pack of Regal, looking at me like he’s about to piss himself laughing,
trying to get the others to enjoy the joke, then they cross the road, running
as they see their bus approaching, laughing, smoking-
-Fock, fock sake, the fockin bus!-
-all dressed in various
crease-ironed trousers, chequered shirts and kicker-style shoes.
I open my resealable silver plastic bag to count the evening’s takings.
Not bad, could be better. Too many coppers and five pees, but nearly there.
Well there’re always too many coppers in this job, moving you on half the time
but what can you do? Another hour. Feet
pass. Mostly steering away, all going somewhere- trainers; knee-length boots;
skater shoes; DMs; Indian sandals with socks;
strictly-no-trainers-no-jeans-club shoes. I keep my head down most of the time
like, except for the odd occasion when change drops into the Man City hat I’ve
got in front of me. Service with a smile, eh? Fuck me, it’s cold.
It’s early March and a sharp wind’s threatening a drab spring. What your
average non-pavement boy doesn’t appreciate is the cold. In a job like this,
disillusionment creeps up on even the well prepared with alarming ferocity. And
you know what, if I had a tenner here now and some change for the phone, I
wouldn’t bother embarrassing myself sitting here any longer. But to be honest,
I’m beyond embarrassment. I passed that stage years ago. I put it like that so
you understand, but what I basically mean is, I wouldn’t waste my time freezing
my arse off here, sat on my arse on a piece of cardboard in a skanky old
blanket outside Abduls, if I didn’t have a cash flow problem, right? Right. So
now we understand each other, I’ll let you take a closer look.
If I was standing up, which I don’t usually bother with for a long
session, more for the casual opportunist opportunities, you’d notice I’m not a
short-arse or a tall kind of bloke, and there’s not much meat on my bones, like
my auntie used to say when I wouldn’t eat up the carved carcases she forked
onto my plate. Always liked my veg, but meat, I still can’t stand it. Used to
chew it and gob out balls of the stuff, stick it on the ledge under the table.
Still got a mohie: had it since I was in school. Not that I bother shaving the
sides every day, or dye it much; well, I’ve got a cash flow problem like I
said, so it’s a sort of cacky brown at the moment, which matches this
height-of-fashion duffle coat. Wish I hadn’t sold my biker jacket now, but
that’s life. I’d put about a thousand studs in it and done some wicked
paintings all over it; copied that Exploited picture with all them punk
skeletons on the back too off the album cover for Troops of Tomorrow. Looking
back, it was worth more than the fifty measly quid I got for it and I bloody
hate this poxy duffel coat, seriously. If I ever see Mogga again, I’ll buy it
back; swear to god he had to squeeze himself into it cos he’s a fat bastard.
I’m not offending him, he says so himself. He was giving me all that lecture
bullshit and all the ‘are you sure about this, Scab face?’ shit when I
sold it to him, but he was always admiring it, so I knew he’d be chuffed to buy
it off of me.
I cut the sleeves off this cunting duffel thing, fuck knows why, cos
like I said, I’m bloody freezing now. At least I’ve got this navy hoodie and
the mohair jumper I can curl my camouflaged knees up into in an attempt at warmth;
yeah, it’s not a bad one either: Ites gold and green like the Rastaman who gave
it to me said. Moses. ‘Gary, mon, jus satta, star’ he said when I
offered him a fiver for it. Wouldn’t take a penny for it, not even a pint of
Guinness. Yeah, he’s a top bloke, proper sorted, but I’ll tell you about him
later, right, cos my boots are moulding themselves to my feet, they’re that
cold. My toes are numb and that Manchester drizzle what came down earlier’s
soaked my blanket, soaked everything, freezing my arse, which is also becoming
dangerously numb. Ah, but here’s a drip of happiness, a bloke on a skateboard
stops and hands us a couple of cigs…magic, eh? Minutes pass. Buses pass. Short
skirts and stilettos pass, but do I look bothered?
Check this out. After today, she’ll probably be here every fuckin night,
on the dot, well I’d say on the dot if I had a watch, but you know what I mean.
Here she comes, head bowed like Saint effin Ophelia, if there is a Saint
Ophelia, that is, this wafer-thin girl. Approaching me now in her Hi-Tec squash
shoes, white socks, red jeans. I look up at her: dark-haired, hollow-eyed, in
an M&S jacket. Earnest-looking.
-Hello?
She speaks tentatively with a soft
RP accent. I mumble a reply; well, more of a grunt, shoving my money bag back
into the inside pocket of my coat, looking sideways down the street at the neon
curry house signs, the buses. The road and the pavement are Friday night busy.
And I’m in a rush now, you know, fuckin aching to get this money changed up and
shift. The girl coughs, crouches down in front of me. Biting her bottom lip,
hands clasped. Here we go. I have her sussed before she even opens her mouth. I
get them all the time; the do-gooder contingent, the god-squad, the wannabe
social workers social wankers; social spastics. Helping you to help ourselves.
Ok, I know, I’m sounding like a judgemental bastard now, right, but I’ll tell
you about judgemental: the ones who spit at me, kick me and do a runner, throw
coppers at me, swear at me: Get a fockin job. Scounging our taxes. Sewer
rat. There are always the odd ones who are sound: I don’t mind a decent
chat from time to time. Takes my mind off the cold. But I prefer most of them
to just drop the money in the hat and walk away. I’m not in the job for the
conversation. If I’d wanted that, I’d have worked in telesales.
-Um, excuse me, sorry to bother you, but, um, I was wondering if you
know somewhere to get something to eat, uh, because there’s a place behind the
university…
Like she’s born and bred in
Manchester and I’m not, like. I mean, excuse my sarcasm, but I was working
these streets before she was sitting her GCSEs. I’m hoping for the last couple
of squid to top up the shrapnel in the kitty so I smile and nod.
-Yeah, I’m alright, cheers love.
-Um, and you’ve got somewhere to sleep? The Salvation Army hostel is
only ten pounds a night…
Is that all? Like they have
vacancies anyway: my left arse cheek they have vacancies, and ten pounds a
night to get raped up the arse and your stuff nicked or your head kicked in if
you’re lucky? Now we’re talking: I can get the same treatment in one of her
Majesty’s overnight suites for free. Now I’m beginning to wish the girl would
just piss off. She’s putting people off, squatting my pavement space like a
free-ad for a non-denominational cult. She means well enough, but we all know
that’s a psuedo-compliment, right?
-Well, so long as you have enough to eat and a place to sleep…
You should see the way she looks at
me, like butter won’t melt, but she’s getting this red glow around the old
cheeks and it’s spreading. Roll on tenner time…
-I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare cig?
-I’m sorry, I don’t smoke- but I do have something for you: will you
read this?
Surprise, surprise. She pulls out a small booklet and hands it
over. There’s a whole bunch of them in her pocket. I fantasize briefly about
reaching in and evacuating possible banknotes tucked underneath them, her words
blurring into the general diesel engine and car-horn chatter.
-It’s Mark’s Gospel. I just want you to know that Jesus loves you,
whoever you are, whatever you’ve done. He forgives all our sins.
-Good for you. Sin a lot, do you?
Ha, she don’t know what to make of
that one. Just looks at me gone out. So I help her out a bit, get the ball
rolling on the business front.
-Well, ‘ave you got some spare change then, love?
-I’m sorry, I don’t give money to beggars. If you look to the lord for
help…
-Well, has he got some spare change then?
Ha, that got her. Bloody hypocrite.
See what I mean? The tightest of ‘em all, the do-gooders.
-Who, sorry?
-The lord.
-Uh, sorry, I don’t understand?
I can feel myself laughing now. It’s fun to have a laugh with them
now and again. Different planet. Different bloody planet.
-Has the lord got some spare change? Just you said I should ask him, and
seeing as you know him so well, I thought you could ask him on my behalf, maybe
he gives money to people like me, so he wouldn’t mind lending you a fiver.
I’m getting impatient now. This is
prime time. I’ll put it like this: there’s enough circumstantial evidence in
this world to give super heavyweight titles to the argument that the lord
doesn’t give a shit about people who ask for his help. If his so-called
missionaries won’t help when I ask them, either they’ve misunderstood what he
instructed them, or he didn’t tell ‘em owt: you decide. Religion’s only useful
to those balancing the books. How much could I get for her leaflet down the
nearest second hand bookshop, for example? Sweet eff ay. Get my point?
-Uh, well, every Sunday, we have a service here…
Now she’s getting another booklet
out of her pocket and I’m checking for a stray tenner or even a quid slipping
out unnoticed, but it’s not my lucky day. She’s showing me an address on its
reverse next to a wishy-washy watercolour of a cross, surrounded by white
flowers. Funereal if you ask me.
-The address and times are on the back. We have a morning and an evening
service; you’re always very welcome to come and invite all your friends.
Oh yeah, maybe I’ll pop in
some time and relieve them of their burden in the form of a few notes from the
old silver plate. Last time the lord’s minions helped me to help myself it was
from a wooden bowl, else legging it with the whole plate would have been a
distinct possibility. Easy work if you can get it. But with clothes like this
and the stink on me like a dog that just got out the river, it’ll be eagle eyes
all round. Last time I had a go I escaped with a twenty and a grin like a
winning politician on election night, but the speed with which I had to scarper
hurt like me lungs were on fire. Should quit the smoking really. It don’t help
with the choring: can’t run as fast as I used to.
I’m beginning to feel pretty frayed around the edges. I’m looking at the
toecaps of my boots, checking this big rip in the leather where the steel’s
showing through. I’m getting tetchy, the pit of my stomach heaving quietly to
itself and I’m not in the mood for this shit. If she doesn’t shift soon I’m
gonna to get aggro, and that ain’t good for business, but seriously, it’s like
going into a brothel and expecting a sports massage on the NHS with some
people, eh?
-Look, love, I appreciate your concern and all that, but I got a job to
do ‘ere.
-Um, well, uh….pause…Um, well, I’m Sue- uh- what’s your name?
-Danny.
-Well, Danny, you take care, and take time to real the Gospel…it’s
really good, you know…you might be pleasantly surprised.
-You’ll get a fockin surprise in a minute, love, I think to myself, or
do I say it out loud? Either way, she looks a little upset as she gets to her
feet, cos when I light the cigarette I got earlier off some Cockney skater, she
does these big Princess Di interview eyes at me, looking up and down the street
with this scared animal vibe, then back at me. I can almost hear her thinking: how
dare he ask me for a cigarette, when he already had one? The cheek of it! Funny,
right? I do a lot of imagining what other people are thinking. Not much of it
nice.
-Goodbye, my friend.
-Yeah, right.
Back to business it is then, and
tonight I’m onto a winner after all. The pubs are kicking out, which can mean a
number of things, but it’s all good tonight thank fuck, and the quids are
flying into the hat and my lucky break comes with the return of the skater who
hands me a fiver.
-Nice one, you sure, like? I ask him, which I immediately regret. Fuckin
daft twat I can be, honest: are you sure? What is it with all this are you sure stuff?
-No, I’m not sure, now give it us back. Course I’m sure, else I
wouldn’t’ve given you it, would I?
See, like I said, there’s sound
cunts just like there are daft cunts and evil cunts. So when the last of the
drinkers have left the kebab houses with their steaming food parcels, I pull
myself up, slowly. Slowly slowly. For fuck sake, it’s painful. My knees
have seized up and I can hardly straighten my back. Definitely time to get
moving. I take a well deserved stretch which turns out to be painful too, and
yawn. What’s up with me and all this stretching and yawning? Right, let’s go:
I’m walking faster with every step.
* *
*
Tania’s cursing and slamming the receiver of the payphone down
repeatedly like she’s trying to tenderise old mutton for the fourth time in a
row. Bastard, she’s thinking, switch your fucking phone on. What the fuck’s
going on? He’d told her to phone him at eight and he’d have it all bagged up.
Now it’s almost midnight. This is taking the piss. Four hours, and by now Adam
and Nathan will be long gone and she’ll be stuck all weekend with Hellie. Fuck
that for a game of soldiers, no chance. She’s in a rage now, trying to slam the
door of the phone box. Frustrated with its slow-closing door mechanism, she
gives it a kick, stubbing her toe.
-Ow, for fuck’s sake!
She’s walking now, then running for
the number 47. The driver raises his eyebrows as she flashes her weekly student
bus pass.
-Rushing home through Rusholme love?
God, that joke gets more irritating
every time she hears it.
She stomps upstairs to the back,
grabbing the cold, chrome bars as she goes, sits on the spring-hard back seat
and lights a fag.
* *
*
The fuckin lighter ain’t working. I’m not having any of this, I can feel
the flint coming loose like it’s about to spring off and it’s times like this
when a walk down the road to the garage ain’t the first thing on my mind. Fuck
sake, there it goes, landing in no mans’ land. Hang on…I’m remembering now,
there’s a box of matches somewhere. Maybe in the kitchen. If you can call it a
kitchen. I look around the room, turning over books, trashed drawings, plates,
empty baked beans cans. Fuck sake, don’t laugh. Do you see me laughing? If I
just shove it all inside this Kwik Save bag I’ll have more chance of finding
the matches or even another lighter. Call it tidying up if you like. Fuck sake,
there’s so much chaos in here my feet are crunching like the floor’s sandy.
Right: wrappers; tins; newspapers; that drawing’s had it; it’s got to go…
I’m checking the kitchen now. I got this old Calor gas burner off a skip
with Spid, and the chest of drawers it’s standing on. Yeah, you guessed, the
cylinder’s empty. Yes, I’ve got it. Ha, look, a box of matches inside this pan.
Stuck to the side by some cruddy smee, but who cares. Charred stumps, noooo.
Hang on, two matches left. I hate using matches but I don’t reckon I have much
choice now. Or do I? I light the lighter with the match, which works better.
It’s a bit of a bloody fiddle but eventually I’m all sorted and everything’s
getting there…
Fuckin hands shaking like an old alchie with the DTs, swear to god I
miss the old times: no rattle, no sweat, no problems finding a route of
administration so to speak, ha. Fuck me, there she is, the scarlet in the
brown, feel better before it even goes in… the relief ain’t something you can
describe unless you’ve got a habit. I breathe in like it’s fresh air in the
Blue Mountains, deep and long, and hit home.
Cushty again. Now I can relax. I’m sitting in this big old armchair,
gouching nicely and if I do say so myself it’s about time I sorted out my shit.
I got piles of drawings here, half of them all fucked up with black marks and
stuff and coffee rings. Then there’s my painting.
Yeah, I’ll get on with it tomorrow, sort it out, get some stuff sold.
Since I was a kid they always told me I had a talent for art. Yeah, it’s pretty
good stuff I’ve done, must be able to make a few quid, surely? I should go
round the galleries or something. Ha, me, Gary Fitzpatrick, the big talent
waiting to be discovered. What a fuckin tragedy. Seriously though, I could do
with making something work for a change. Don’t you reckon? Like Moses would
say, Lord have mercy!
PART ONE: Squatters’ Rights
One
Wet Phosphorus
Friday, 8 August 2014
H is for hormonal
some days the world needs a little warning |
the era of the MENOPAUSE is with us.
Well technically, Perry Menopause.
Some days I'm fine, but other days I shouldn't be allow out alone
and then only with baby reins and a dummy.
On the bright side,
Menopausal hysteria sure beats the hell out of a teenage strop.
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
Ding dong the witch is dead; a few of my thoughts this week
Today's state farce, fitting for any third world tin pot dictator.
The poor suffer while the county puts on a very expensive show.
Thatch rant on a Monday
Maggie made councils sell off houses and wouldn't even let them use the money on building more property; really affordable homes.
Benefit cap starts in parts of the country today,
Family's are punished for costing us too much, when most of the benefit goes on sky high rents especially in London.
Margaret Thatcher started this fuelling the economy by creating the start of a housing bubble. Because no one will ever scrimp and save to buy their first house if the council provided plenty of cheep,decent housing.
But if they did the counties benefit bill would be massively reduced today.
Thatcher rant for a Tuesday
Darling Maggie deregulated the Banks and encouraged everyone to buy shares., This lead to Banks over lending and everyone gambling on the stock market.. now we have ostarenity ( I kno I can't spell) While fat cat bankers still walk away with massive pensions, the country pays for her state funeral.
"Greed is Good" culture enabled a few to get rich at the long term expense of the majority.
(Is it me or did Tony Blare have a little crush on her.)
Ding dong the witch is dead.......
the world seams to have forgotten that thatcher destroyed our industry, leading to parts of the country never recovering; now accused of being generations growing up on the dole. she promoted greed while quoting St Francis (he gave everything to the poor) she took us to war and sold off the country assets for short term gain.
I could go on
The poor suffer while the county puts on a very expensive show.
one for the bucket list 30 years late |
Maggie made councils sell off houses and wouldn't even let them use the money on building more property; really affordable homes.
Benefit cap starts in parts of the country today,
Family's are punished for costing us too much, when most of the benefit goes on sky high rents especially in London.
Margaret Thatcher started this fuelling the economy by creating the start of a housing bubble. Because no one will ever scrimp and save to buy their first house if the council provided plenty of cheep,decent housing.
But if they did the counties benefit bill would be massively reduced today.
Thatcher rant for a Tuesday
Darling Maggie deregulated the Banks and encouraged everyone to buy shares., This lead to Banks over lending and everyone gambling on the stock market.. now we have ostarenity ( I kno I can't spell) While fat cat bankers still walk away with massive pensions, the country pays for her state funeral.
"Greed is Good" culture enabled a few to get rich at the long term expense of the majority.
(Is it me or did Tony Blare have a little crush on her.)
Ding dong the witch is dead.......
the world seams to have forgotten that thatcher destroyed our industry, leading to parts of the country never recovering; now accused of being generations growing up on the dole. she promoted greed while quoting St Francis (he gave everything to the poor) she took us to war and sold off the country assets for short term gain.
I could go on
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
Monday, 4 June 2012
The King Is Dead
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