November 22nd 2007
For the foreseeable future, the stuff what would normally
appear here in the Duke's Journals will be showing up instead
over on London In Broken C, a blog I recently went about
stickin' together. Please add it to your blogrolls and all
that business. Blogrolls... "Hells blazes, we've run our
blogroll and I just shit myself forty-two links to funny
stuff I found on YouTube!"
Yes, so apologies for the no-updating at this particular
corner of the web, but Over On The New-Fangled Doohickey, the
updates are fairly regular.
August 29th 2007
In a dream I’m walking down Grafton Street in Dublin with the
noon-day sun hung frozen midst the night-time skyway and a
breeze the colour of London Town kneading subtly with phantom
fingers the nape of my neck.
From the cracks atween the kerb-stones measures of melody
bleed out o’er the pavings. Vagrants sit hunched around
meagre pyres in the corners of ill-lit alleyways. Old queens
gabble wordlessly amongst themselves with backs against the
shuttered-up storefronts. Youngsters with noses all glue-fume-
scorch huddle about the flick’rin glow of the streetlamps,
coughing foulest aphorisms at other, sneering ‘hind fag-burn-
potted hands. ECT-fried preachers holler in tongues of
screeching ‘lectric revelation.
From an upstairs window a wave of female laughter spills out
onto the street. A busker strums an out-of-tune guitar and
sings of Tuesday mornings spent puking Monday nights o’er
sweat-slick bed-sheets. Rhymes fall from his face like dead
flies. Spent verses pool in black-water puddles about his tip-
A woman in a purple cardigan flaffs a hand at me and says
“Crippled and broken beasts they brought to The Lord, so they
did. Lambs half mad with disease, donkeys with the hind legs
shattered, calves with half the faces off from the wolves,
this is the class o’ stock they offered, and expecting for
that the full of His radiance then upon them?” She gives a
humourless laugh. “My arse hole, says He.”
Voices flitter past me like ticker-tape - A dockyard chorus
singing Abide With Me. A lass from Lucan saying “No, go to
London, it’ll be good for you…”A fella with a feigned Montana
accent sighing “I wish I could quit you.” A friend from
school as I imagine he sounds now sighing at the static on a
TV screen. Billy Bragg singing St Swithin’s Day. A priest
yelling at me way back when for waking him out his sleep at
half four in the mornin’ on account of Christ spoke to me
from midst the clanging of a meat-slicer in a butcher’s shop.
Me clearing my throat and mumbling at a too-warm coffee - “My
name’s Aaron and I’m an alcoholic...”
Round about me, the airways hang pregnant with bellyfuls of
summer, 2005 – eyeing the lads and lassies stood cocked o’
jaws and titled o’ heads on the Ha’penny bridge, eyes all
whispering “Fancy a jag o’ thon, son?” Savage purple glow off
Harry Street, glow bright enough to singe everything else
black for years thereafter. Litres of possible futures
poured back into the Liffey, a ticket to County Antrim
burning the arse out my trousers.
Red-lit barrooms to my left all a-shingle with bop and
bother. Troupes of heat-warped teenagers gawking dead eyed
from the interiors of parked cars. Folks in bedsits draped in
reels of cassette-tape all stutt’rin beats and pitch-shifted
voices and samples from TV soundtracks, the ghost of William
Burroughs haunting the gaps atween their fingers.
Comes stumbling from the sidelines raging, screeching
Lazarus. “I was lain with angels!” he roars. “Angels stitched
from strands of fractured white light all a-shimmer, angels
who kissed me like the first rays of sun kissed the fresh-
moulded Earth!” The howl of infinity from somewheres ‘thin
his chest. “On the shoulders of the ocean I was raised!”
Weeping into blistered, blue-grey hands he falls to his
A film projected onto the door of a red-brick townhouse
details an orgy of hysterical creation erupting in St
Stephen's Green - Men and women paw at the leaves of trees,
rubbing wet hands back and forth along the branches, the bark
all throbbing and shuddering. Great arcing ropes of rhyme
spray from the uppermost heights of a climaxing poplar. A
couple dive naked into a lake, emerging with slick fistfuls
of tangerine-tinted prose. A hedgerow spurts sonnets over a
man in a red shawl, Calliope weaving in and around his legs
in bursts of half-glimpsed faces and half-heard song.
Overhead, a brooding cloudscape smoulders, sundry curious
forms oscillating erratically therein; wolf heads snapping,
palms pressed in prayer, monks ravaged with leprosy, archers
with bows held aloft…
A woman in a thinning leopard-print coat approaches passers-
by with head lowered and hands all fidgeting and eyes fixed
on the scuffed-blunt toes of her shoes. A man holds in his
arms a lame, whimpering collie, whispering into its ear –
“S'alright, dote, s’alright. Nearly home so we are, nearly
Towards Nassau Street I wander, encountering thereon a group
of bald-headed women with mouths all a-mutter and palms
pressed in prayer and the reek of the psychiatric hospital
rising up off their clothes in carmine streaks.
Chards of memory glistening in the air like morning dew on a
hedgerow – Fingers digging into walls. Slapping hands off of
the pill dispensary shutters - “I need somethin’ to put me to
sleep you bastards!” Duelling Christs bare-foot on wet
gravel, scowling at other, daring – “Go on, heal the lame,
fucker. Prove yourself.” Shaving my head with a BIC razor,
blood pissin’ down the cheeks. Woman crying on account of her
son stole all her money. She has no son.
Folks sauntering past from over Trinity College direction,
faces obscured by the murmur of the traffic. In the fumes I
see a house in London with no ghosts nor memories nor
regrets. Stairs I never fell down, mirrors I never scowled
into, a reflection I’ve never cursed for all the dirty
drunken filthy tramp bastards of the day and night. Bed-
sheets I never wept under, toilets I’ve tossed not an inch of
London Town writhing back my eyes like a thousand rat-tails
entwined, and Dublin pulsing neath my feet like a bag of
Thinking – If that email had been different way back when…
What dreams might a fella now be in the midst of?
Say Hello Via Email If You Fancy
An advert for my debut record - The Album - "Yonder!
Calliope?" - Is Available Now. Sample Or Pick It Up On CD or
Download Or Whatever From This Convenient Link.
July 30th 2007
04:03 and sore knackered of the brains and body and soul,
fingers tippity-ta-tappity off of the keys, emails flung,
“Yonder! Calliope? Out Now” and so on and so forth, editing
an animated promo clip with the left foot, polishing up a
paragraph of the novel with the right, thinking all the while
– keep workin, lad, keep workin’, for thon demons hidden back
there all garbed out in barbed-wire robes and all reekin’ of
guilt and regret and shame, they’re timing every blink of the
eye, they are, and soon as those lids meet for any length o’
tick-tock at all they’ll come careering o’er yon plains like
the 5th Battalion, by God they will, and what terrors they’ll
unfurl o’er kippin’ mind…
“Dear Sir / Madam,
I am writing to I’m Sorry inform you of the recent release of
For Everything ‘Yonder! Calliope?’, Please Believe That the
debut record by Northern Irish artist Aaron I’m In Fuckin
Pieces, Swear To McMullan. Christ I Am ‘Yonder! Calliope?’,
released by Ex Libris Records in July of 2007 is Last Thing I
Ever Wanted Or McMullan’s first ‘proper’ album following the
release of several Dreamed That I Would Do Is free-to-
download ‘net-records’ Hurt You…”
Christ. God in Heaven. By the gilded gash o’ Mary.
Reaching for a cigarette from out the pack on the windowsill,
glancing for a moment at the estate far side of the glass.
Peaceful, serene, it slumbers. Union Jacks hang limp from top
the lamp-posts. Night-time tip-toes spindle-legged o’er blue
kerbs and red kerbs and white. Remnants of the 11th night
bonfire still visible up there next the skip – mound of burnt
wire and charred wood and wind-dashed ash perched atop the
scorched-black grass of the playing field.
Fella approaching me with the flames flick’rin on the curves
of the drink-glossed eyes. Lids hung three inches down the
jaws. “Yourself” says he, raising a tin of Super T. “Well?”
“Well enough, aye.”
“Big this year” he says, gesturing towards the bonfire with
the toe of his trainer. “Far bigger’n last years or the year
afore maybe even.”
To the heights of the pyre a young lass flings a firework,
running off then jumping and hollering; “It’s in, it’s in I
threw it in!”
Crack of a banger exploding somewheres midst the mass of
pallets and old cupboards. “Another, throw another!”
“Anythin’ planned for after?” fella asks then, wiping the
froth from the side of the mouth with the back of a hand.
“I might watch Shortbus again” says I. “Amazing so it is. Has
a bit with a man singing The Star Spangled Banner up another
man’s arse, did you know?”
Slow shake of the head and skew of the mouth. “I did not know
that there.” Turning then, staring for a moment at the lad
behind us, lad with a flute in the yap and the trousers all
black with soot. “Me and him’s got a wee car there, so we
have. Fifty notes atween us off the breakers. We’re gon’ go
drive through a couple fences.”
“Hmm. Minister down there. Great bugger of a fence he has
round the front garden. Gon’ drive clean through ‘er so we
are and then drive through another one maybe a bit further
on. You wanna come?”
“No” says I, feigning a yawn. “No I think it’ll be a quiet
night for me. Just the picture and then maybe read a bit o’
poor old Molly Bloom bletherin’ and then prob’ly collapse
front the computer.”
“Fair enough.” Swallow of Super T and a shudder. “Boys a
boys. Rotten, this.”
Lad with a stick poking at a burning tyre, screech from an
old fella over by the fence – “Jais’ Christ come away frai
that! That wire comes oot thonner it’ll cut the fuckin’ heed
Old fella’s been dead since 2002, so he has. Things the mind’
ll bring to mind... Memories threaded ‘long memories. Fumble
from 99 with a lass met in the August of 2003. 15 year old me
listening to a record I didn’t hear till I was 20. Cityscape
glimpsed in Spring of ’89 a simulacrum of a lass’s hand I
held in the same city twelve years later.
Girl crying my tears. “I’m sorry.”
Dream I had the other night I was walkin’ around Dublin and
overhead, by Jesus, the noon-day sun burning in the night-
time sky. Ring of brilliant azure day-light midst an infinite
sprawl of deepest, pitchest black. In the basement of a
boarding house three fellas stood pissin’ into a single
porcelain dish. “Just saw Inland Empire” I said to one of
them, “Myself and Sir Fleming watched it in the picture house
upstairs, there. Thought there’d be more rabbits.”
Flicks released straight-to-dream. “Must get a Nytol down me
for I don’t want to miss the trailers” a man would say.
Resting back on the chair a moment, pullin’ on the filter-
tip, Amy Winehouse singing about thoughts of Superman and a
touch of the old solo fiddle-de-whoopsie.
God bless you Amy, thinking. Beautiful soul if ever was one.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
January 25th 2007
My arsehole, as you may or not be aware, is an orifice of
utmost important to me. It forms an integral part in my
scribblin’ and hollerin’, owing to how much time a fella must
spend therein if’n he’s to discuss the things I discuss, i.e,
me, to any worthwhile extent whatever. It played a vital
role, my arsehole did, in the last (to date) Mondo Podcast,
it featured in many’s an article, including this here what’s
called Reflections On Spring 2005, or, Last Thoughts
Concerning My Anus (which proved altogether highly premature
a pronouncement on my part), and it has a major narrative
function to fulfil in the novel I’m currently scribbling,
although it’s on hold as of the last fortnight on account of
the first feature-length draft of the screenplay is
thiiiiiissss close to completion.
For these reasons, y’unnerstann, not to mention the
importance of all the digestion / excretion / comedy roles my
arsehole performs day to day, for these reasons, I say, it
came as something of a great shock to me when, the other
evening, a friend, having watched me wander from one end of
the street to the other, let the following observation rise
like ticker-tape out his throat;
“Here, you’ve none arse no more.”
I stared at him, eyebrows all knotted.
“Where’s your arse, boyo?”
“The hell d’you mean where’s my arse?” says I, “It’s where
it's always been, being literarily just north of the backs o’
my legs, and figuratively just behind my tongue.”
“Behind the tongue it may well still be, but at the base o’
the spine it is certainly not.”
I turned, and a great fear there and then grabbed hold the
nooks o’ my skull. In the glow o’ thon street-lights and bin-
fires, I trembled a time or two.
My arse had vanished.
It soon transpired that, ironically enough, it was owing to
the amount of time spent writing about my arse, by way of the
aforementioned novel, that my physical arse had been forced
for to shuffle off of my body.
When a man spends 18 hours of every 20 battering the keys and
grimacing at the screen, what tends to happen is that he
smokes a terrible amount of cigarettes and swallows a fuck of
a load of caffeine. The cumulative effect of this, of having
these two entities ploughing about the guts in such doses, is
that said guts tend to splinter and splooter and fall apart
like a leper at the mercy o’ the lash.
A man soon finds he’s shitting water, he’s coughing things
look like Papa New Guinea from out his throat-hole. He’s
sleeping none at night and missing every hour of daylight
sent careering o’er the stars. His jaw-bones jut out six
inches from his face. His eyes sink so far back the head as
to be gazing out the skull of the fella stood behind him at
the record emporium. (Note – did I use that before? Jesus oh,
it’s gettin’ wicked hard to tell)
Many’s a worry is voiced; “Are you eating?” and says I, the
only time I’m not eating is when I’m talking, and even then
I'm probably talking about “D’you wanna get somethin’ to eat?”
“Have you perchance a tapeworm?” and I say no, not that I’m
“It’s the smoking.”
I nod. It is the smoking. And the coffee. And the Diet Coke.
And the sleepers. And the mooder-uppers.
Boys, but my liver’s in a wicked state, right enough, with
the tablets, and my guts are worse again with the caffeine,
and now, it’d be a braver man than me would dare borrow my
lungs for an hour’s worth o’ in-out puff-puff.
But what can a fella do? The tasks must be accomplished; the
screenplay finished, the novel finished, the forthcoming
Proper Album promoted and the single decided upon and. . .
But far side of all that, I dare say my arse will return, and
will be filled with immeasurable fancies and wonders the
likes of which’ll keep me scribbling for a decade.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
January 15th 2007
What I got to thinking about this morning, and this
afternoon, and this evening, was something along the lines of
the following, albeit represented here with a touch more
literary flair; By the blessed minge o’ Holy Teresa, what a
curious bugger of a thing it is, right enough, the old
For a fella along the lines of yours truly, who has had none
intoxicating liquor past the yap-flaps in near four years,
the sensations gnawing at the whites of the eyes and,
importantly, at the base o’ the filth when he’s been awake
for twenty-six hours are as close as he’s ever wanting to
ever again get to the feelings and notions and sensations
done crept along the crest of the mind ‘pon wakening out a
four day drunk.
Perpetual bleats and brays ringing in maddening chorus round
about the room, eruptions back the hyoid bone of the most
debilitating anxieties, continuously shifting fancies
indulging in the most outrageous of stratagems round about
the cerebellum, such are the sleep-deprived fella’s burdens,
and such did I find spindling about me this morning at about
the hour of 8 a.m.
With regards the three projects currently jostling for
position midst the miasmic gunk o’ my attentions, a great
number of concerns done gripped me; The Screenplay (which,
upon advice offered by the Northern Irish Film Commission, is
to be a full feature-length affair and which is to be
produced, all things going to plan, by De Novo pictures this
year) had me tossing first one way, then the other, then a
third way which near had me crawling about the undergarments
of a fella lives three doors down, and for what reason?
Narrative concerns, a desire for to have things finished NOW
rather than a week from now or a month. The worry that I
might end up going mad or indeed dying before I finish it,
since sometimes my pulse slows so much that I can near listen
to The Blinding EP by Babyshambles in its entirety in the
time it takes for one beat to birth the next.
Also; the novel, on account of I’m stuck somewhat at Chapter
Seven even though I said to agent types that I’d be finished
by January, and yet here I am with a third of a “determinedly
scatological” (in the words of one agent) story and what in
God’s name can a man do with a third of a story if not write
the remaining two-thirds, and yet how can he do that if every
time he goes to the computer he’s sent spiralling t’wards a
most savage inertia with the fear that the next line might
not be as good as the last, which in itself was nothing on
the line hitherto.
In addition; The Proper Record, to be released by Ex Libris
in the forthcoming months, and with a single due in February.
Talk of this can be found on The Aaron McMullan Music Site,
where it belongs.
Finally, the one thought threatening to not only topple all
others but also the remnants of my already sore tattered mind-
wax; I could do with a fumble.
The thinking was that, since it was by now 11 in the AM,
there was little to coax me to sleep if not a splurge o’
milken sin ‘gainst the porcelain. Certainly Richard Dawkins
wittering in my ear out the iPod wasn’t doing much to sate me.
To this end, I lifted a copy of Bizarre magazine which was
shoved under the bed and wandered slack-yapped to the
Now. My ladyfriend, Beautiful Ms Gillian, has oft-times
jested along the lines of “You buy that Bizarre for none
articles, you buy it for the naked ladies is what you buy it
for” and I say no, for the porn stuff is really only a load
of adverts at the back, I honest to God buy it because the
articles therein are astounding. Where else can a man find
stories about taxidermy and vampire punk bands and Joe Meek
and Asian tentacle filth all within but a couple pages of
Still. This morning it was the filth I headed towards.
What happened, it turned out, was that I wasn’t really in the
mood, and I already felt disgusted with myself enough as it
was (another curious side-effect of no sleeping is self-
loathing, which lasts from precisely 18 hours after the last
kip until such times as kip is finally granted), and probably
a good cack would do just as well.
As I sat there, though, I became altogether very intrigued by
the adverts on the last few pages. “Phone and hear me shoot
pygmies out my hoo-hah”. “Listen to me splurge lady-wet onto
my aunt”. “I’m in dire need of a dirty ol’ willy, might you
perchance have one?”
I’d a quid left on the mobile phone credit, the call cost 35p
a minute. . .
For research purposes, I gave a call to someone assuring me
that “If it’s a lettin’ loose o’ the grot you’re after, well,
just phone us up and we’ll help you out best we can”, which
sounded terribly civilised and gracious.
Retiring to the room again, I dialled yonder number, out of
genuine curiosity. Who would answer? Who are these
individuals? What would happen if it was someone you knew?
“Ooh, I’m gon’ talk right mucky!”
“Bejeesus, poet laureate Donald Hall!”
So aye, for these reasons and none others (my trousers were
up) I phoned to see what the hell this was all about anyroad.
“Hello” says the automated woman, “You’re but a moment
removed from the kindsa *bleep* eating *bleep* want nothing
more than to *bleep* your *bleep* and *bleep* the *bleep* and
maybe even *bleep* a *bleep* or two, should the bishop be
available. Best you grab hold the *bleep* and be ready for to
*bleep* from here to Saturn, for I swear on all’s holy, the
*bleep* you’ll be gettin’ is nothing short of physiologically
What she said next was that “All calls are recorded”, and
first I thought, oh fuck, I better not say anything, and then
I thought no, I’ll say mondoirlando.com a thousand times, for
who knows who hears these things?
“We’re gonna put you in touch right now with a staggering
array of *bleep* bitches and *bleep* sluts and *bleep*
*bleep*. Hang on tight, boy, for this is gon’ *bleep* your
fucking *bleep* in two.”
I gripped the side of the mattress. What in God’s name could
be waiting other side of that *bleep*?
“Are you ready?”
“Are you ready to have your legs wrapped thrice about your
neck with sheer *bleep* ecstasy?”
“Well” says I, “I’d certainly be in the mood to find out how
you might go about doing it.”
Some manner of music swelling in the background, a giddy
kaleidoscopic tapestry of synth sweeps and heavy breaths and
talk of *bleeping* my *bleep*. “Are you ready?”
“Are you ready?”
“Fuck my thighs I’m ready, dammit!”
35p a minute my arse.
The handset (and nowt else) clamped useless in my paw, I fell
back to the mattress, the chances of any kip looking all the
slimmer, far side of what should have been, by all rights,
the kinda carry-on would have a man asleep for a month
Feeling very tired and yet very awake, feeling utterly
sickened and still worrying no less, worrying more, if
anything, since this is just the kind of scene a man finds
early on in a story about a taxi driver goes mad and throws
himself off of Cybil Shephard’s ankles, I lay staring at the
emulsion sprawl of the ceiling.
Sometimes around half twelve in the PM, I fell asleep.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
October 17th 2006
8 in the AM I’m sat raging at the page, “Gel, y’great fucker,
It’s what it’s all about, The Gel.
Merging this chapter with that, this aside with thon sketch,
the characters all stood hither and the arcs all strewn o’er
“Gel, for Jesus’ holy sakes, I’m 24 years old and two shit
fling’s shy o’ death, I dare say, and still these chapters
refuse for to meld at the commas.”
Writing a novel. Turns out it’s a whole fuck of a lot of
On my hard-drive there are some 34 folders stacked bollock-to-
bifkin inside a larger folder entitled Novel. These folders,
they each contain a plethora of Chapter Ones, Proper Chapter
Ones, Possible Chapter Twos, Notes For Second Act.
I dare say there’s more words in thon folders than a man
would find in all the speeches in Cuba. And yet, oh and yet.
Insofar as where a man might be at with regards Writing The
Book. . . chapter three, is where.
Sometimes these things just refuse to Gel.
For every 30’000 words written, 243 are spared the lash of
the re-write, the indignity of the Old Stuff suffix.
Chapter One Old Stuff – Don’t Use
Mid-September 2006 Old Stuff – Shite
Late-September 2006 – Old Stuff
Some of this Old Stuff is abandoned for reasons of quality
control. If’n a man’s to avoid the snarl and grind o’ the
factory, he can’t be letting under-par syllables clog up the
guts o’ the pages. Some stuff is abandoned just cause it
doesn’t fit anyplace.
T’is one such bit I’m set for relating herein, for no reason
other than I kinda dug it.
This bit is now officially Old Stuff, but I only decided that
ten minutes ago.
What it is, is a conversation takes place twixt my main
characters, David McFall (who used to be the narrator, but
isn’t anymore) and his ever-present companion, The Priest.
Some Old Stuff That’s New To You
---For to pass a few minutes I get to telling himself there
all about the night Natasha and I took ourselves off to
Castlerock, a gorgeous coastal village in County Londonderry
much favoured by holidaying yuppies and bedraggled hippies,
headed off that direction in pursuit o’ the nearby cliffside
‘pon which Mussenden Temple stands quaking ‘neath the
The Temple – it was erected in the eighteenth century as part
o’ an elaborate series of landmarks commissioned by the
Bishop of Derry. Back then it was a library, y’unnerstann,
but nowadays it serves none much function at all, other than
as a tourist draw. Masses o’ the buggers, every summer they
wreck themselves traipsing o’er miles of gravel and sand and
muck for to spend fifteen minutes poking round the periphery
o’ thon construction afore deciding it looked better in the
postcards and heading off again to get fucked on stout. It
threatens for to collapse into the ocean every fart’s end,
The Temple does, and the National Trust have spent God knows
how much keeping the fucker secured.
Now, a few nights hitherto the night in question, Natasha and
I had been bantering merrily o’er a pint or fourteen with a
drag king worked in a tavern in Bannbridge, lass by the name
of Al. “I tell you this”, said Al, “Youse need to be up round
Castlerock at the weekend. There’s a right demented rave set
for swelling up there. You can find out all about it from the
Pakistani lad works in the off-licence.”
We found out all there was to find, set out that direction on
the Saturday afternoon and next thing we know we’re stood up
there midst a glorious menagerie o’ tangled brains and naked
bodies and yaps all afluster with tongues o’ chaotic rhyme,
and all writhing in the belly o’ that subterranean throb
stemmed from a generator-powered DJ console someplace off in
“Oh joy” The Priest mumbles, “A field fulla twats in surgical
masks stinking o’ Vaporub.”
“Well,” says I, “There were a right few, no doubt about that.
A couple hundred, I dare say, all beat-soused and with the
rubber-gloved hands in the air weaving nonsensical tapestries
out the colours ‘hind their eyes.”
Dancing and whistling and gyrating and grooving and
dehydrating something savage, thus we passed the time,
y'unnerstann, me fucked on sake and stout and Natasha there
all chewing the cheeks raw in the second or third flair o’
some effervescent MDMA head-splurge.
Eventually, we took it upon ourselves for to clamber up top
the temple itself (aided by a few lads and ladies hoistered
us up on the shoulders), clambered up top, says I, and did
watch that crowd all melting and setting anew ‘neath the
weight o’ thon kaleidoscopic sun.
With her head on my shoulder, Natasha, she’d whispered; “God
bless Shulgin and Zeff.”
At the time, you’ll be aware, I had less than a hint o’ a
clue with regards who Shulgin and Zeff might be, but I agreed
anyroad, I said “Aye”, says I, “Bless the fuckers blind, sure
“Who were they?” The Priest asks.
“Alexander Shulgin and Leo Zeff” says I, “Chemist and
psychotherapist began dabblin’ with the MDMA as a therapeutic
aid in the seventies.”
To the left of the car a series of rustic mountains rise up
out the green. Behind them, the great sea splutters and
splails and tickles the coast.
A similar tickling was going on ‘long the length of the beach
beneath Natasha and I, and yet another variety going on
somewheres on the crest of my thigh, which is where Natasha’s
hand was currently situated. Running a finger the length o’
the leg, she kisses me, gently bites my bottom lip and then,
with her eyes closed she whispers “I’m sorry, I’ve lost it.”
“Sure who hasn’t?” said I. “Look at yon fellas o’er yonder,
for Gods sakes.”
The fellas in question, they were stood bollock naked a few
feet away staring at other with incredible intensity. Neither
of them blinked nor twitched nor tittered. Some two hours or
more, it had been going on for.
Natasha, with the eyes all blue-grey whispers and the smile
all shades of Belfast city caught twixt the thighs o’ a
summer shower, she’d said “No”, she’d said, “No no no. No. I
Putting both hands on my shoulder she whimpered, near tears.
“Oh” says I.
“Aye. And I’m so so so sorry, for I’d surely love a fumble
here and now.”
Some fifteen or seventeen minutes theretofore, Natasha had
ran a finger south o’ her umbilicus and had found, to her
surprise, a mound o’ nothin’ much at all.
“It must’ve fell off” she sniffed, “When we were over by the
fences or somethin’.”
“Must have” I agreed. “But sure, who hasn’t lost it of
“Hell’s blazes” The Priest says, “Did she find it again?”
“She did, the vagina and all goes with it had returned by the
time the peelers came careering o’er the hills for to chase
the lot o’ us to fuck.”---
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