I completely forgot it was St. Patrick’s Day. I knew it was, the information was around, it just didn’t register as I would’ve considered this when making plans. I’m keen to avoid pubs on this day for a very good reason. Nonetheless, there I was last night with Rosh and a few of her friends ordering beer at the bar of some public house in Sarf Landon.
Mercifully the bar was half empty, the boozer next door on the other hand was all green balloons and flags and rammed full of Guiness-drunk types singing ‘I wish I was back home In Derry.’ The Australian barmaid questioned my decision to have a quiet pint of Pride when I could be walled in by a 1000 Irish-lite men laughing spittle and conversing only a little less loudly than Santa Pod through a Marshall, why wasn’t I ‘enjoying the ‘craic’?’
If there’s one word that gets my goat it’s that. For a kick off it’s an English Scottish word, not Irish, and as for that fucking spelling, that was invented in the 70’s. But for me it has more personal connotations, on St. Patrick’s day 20 odd years ago a drunken fellow tried to fondle a female companions ‘craic’ and when I intervened got a ‘craic’ in the mouth and a fucking good kicking to boot. The association of St. Patrick’s Day and being hurted are forever bound, though last night passed off perfectly peacefully and everyone had a pleasant evening.
Time for some Cunt news. He has a job, definitely. I only know this because he’s incapable of remembering his name and address, so when an anonymous envelope with my address lands on the communal doormat I opened it, naturally. It was an contract for full time employment in pest control, which is so deliciously ironic I don’t know where to start. What has been apparent over the past few weeks it that it appears to be shift based and we’re, for the most part anyway, on different schedules. This is excellent news now and gaining interest in the bank of hate, I’ve had an offer on my gaff from a property developer to convert it entirely. If I accept the offer he’ll be endlessly disrupted, hopefully as he’s trying to get off to sleep after a night in the sewer, woken by the chirpy sound of livid scaffolders clanging and banging and smashing, ahhh, even makes me feel a little guilty to keep sending those exciting looking packages full of offal and dogshit.
Josef Fritzl is in court (he’s a dead ringer for Vincent Price isn’t he) and the BBC mentioned at the beginning of their report that he was wearing a ‘grey suit and blue shirt.’ Snappy eh? But I’m a bit confused. Why? Is he trying to impress the jury? As his daughter speaks of her harrowfying deal, 24 years of beatings, incest, rape, murder, do you think anyone gives a weeping Christ what he’s wearing? Surely to be vain at such a time just shows what an evil little pervert he is. Indeed, his case would be better served if he walked into court stark naked, smeared in his own excrement trying to piss into his mouth.
Anyway, his defence lawyer Rudolf Mayer has publicly said he was perhaps, next to Fritzl, the most hated man in Austria. They’ve a short memory that lot haven’t they, what about that bloke who murdered 6,000,000 Jews? His name escapes me for now, but I’m sure it’ll come back.