that's real heavy
decal jumper
shapes and shine
door kicking WWF style. Audi gang sled.
Some poor fucker downstairs better sort them out. The scum has got some serious scum.
08:34
More than average nightmare:
The level of suicides in Ireland is now one of the highest in the world, with between 450 and 500 people taking their lives each year.09:00
1962 BORN: MC Hammer, AKA Stanley Kirk Burrell, US performer, U Can't Touch This
10:10
Cats can donate blood to other cats.
14:21
Betcha wouldn't tell these Belfast boyos to quit their cannery, McDoodoo. His excuse will be he has no jurisdiction. And who's granddad is at fault for that, eh?
Belfast walls are telling us something...
pic [PIRA slogan crossed with MI6]
 |
| Rebels, riven |
We're heading for a three way finish. The cops expect trouble tonight, they tell me. Here. On my door. A body, probably. My neighbours from hell are locked in some kind of blood feud in whatever sewer pipe part of Dublin they originally come from and they have been found out to be living here.
These patriots have been at it for fifteen years, the cops tell me. One of the firm is doing six years for stabbing the other side. Now they have found out that my neighbour is living here and they want him. The cops expect it will all kick off later tonight when they all gets out of bed, get sausages, go a-prowling.
The front door gets battered in again in the dead of the night. How should I know, I'm asleep, conditioned not to react to things that go bump in the night. I call in to the Bridewell police barracks and they fill me in.
The redhead freckled cops and the hefty ones. Hired muscle. With their stab-proof pullovers. The cops call them “Limerick Jerseys”. One of them is my hero. He is a bicycle cop. The other one looks pretty hot for a girlman. She can club me for protesting capital any day.
Paddy Hardon is now involved too. He knows some ugly people. People with moustaches. And degrees in knuckle fighting. His door was vandalised by our wayward friends also so he's out for blood.
The way it happens is this. The cream crackers wake up about ten, put on their hair gel and grey white shoes. Spray on some Lynx. Tupac tunes from the plastic box. Pull up their hoods and come a kicking. Acting on no intelligence whatsoever, the Thunderpant's Tactical Response Unit've (TTRU) already covered the hall in protective plastic sheeting as a precaution. Hammer bleedin' time. The door comes off it's hinges as it's blown in. We hotline the cops. They jump into squad cars the second they secure the order from the take-away with the hope that this will all be over in the time it takes for their chips to cool down.
In the meantime, Paddy's firm rush in with knuckle dusters. They smack the heads off the gurriers from the street who are creaming my gurriers from next door. The Gardai arrive with their batons and start battering the gurriers on the gurriers who are on the gurriers. Everyone piles in, on the landing. I'm standing on my doormat at the last line of defence, plastic sheeting in the lobby, Dublin jersey on my back, goggles, gas mask, track suit bottoms, hitting everyone, absolutely everybody in the melee with my lucky hurley stick until they all go fucking quiet.
Game over. Peace in our time. Drag the unconcious out. The plastic sheeting goes into a recycling bin and is collected in a month's time. I close the door and lock it. Into my fucking bed. Builders start in four hours.
22:34
ADIO: Your child is shivering. Buy ten billion beneficial bacteria for three euro a pack.
