Sunday, 31 January 2010


Languishing at the bus stop Jonson emitted a faint pump. He glanced around to see if any cunt had bore witness. An old guy leaning on a railing looked up to meet his glance. The auld yin looked at him like Ah clocked ye, ye dirty bastart.
A fine female specimen wandered past pushing a buggy. Who's this fine female specimen, Jonson wonder to hisself.
Careful hen, dinnae inhale that odious waft.
The thing was to act nonchelant as hell, son, don't incriminate yourself with furtive glances. With regard to public farting.
And admiring fine female specimens.
When the bus rolled up Jonsons carried out his standard assessment of the lower deck, scanning for fine female specimens. None observed, he ascended upstairs to the vacant upper deck. He took a seat and began writing this senseless pish yer reading now, boys and girls.
A folded newspaper lay on the adjacent seat. It had rather a convoluted headline. It seems some lonely AIDS sufferer had purposefully infected his wife with his sickness so that he might enjoy sexual relations with her again.
It seems some guileless whore of an administrative assistant has banned two weans from attending a school Christmas disco on account of they didnae possess a 100 percent perfect attendance record. But this was on account of the fact that their old man had been tallied and the poor wee cunts had to take time off to attend the funeral. Bereavments count the admin whore had stated sternly.

Some drivers dinnae even bother looking at the damn fucking thing and mibby I'd be the same who kin blame them. Ye pull over in these wild wee villages like Uphall, yer no wanting to question anybodd's intergrity. Especially if they are dishonest.
Then ye get these other cunts that scrutinise the damn fucking thing. Then again, mibby I'd be like them, a right officious cunt.
I'm talking about bus passes by the way.
I'm no at my ease on the upper deck of the bus on a Saturday night. Too many brutal rajes liable to no look too kindly on some cunt writing notes (i.e. me).
Blasting the auld bit Sonic Youth in the auld lugholes, braw man, braw.
The bus rumbles onwards over these atrocious roads.
Neds murmuring vaguely in the background. Scheming against yer hometown son, yer affable and humble narrator.
Failed plans, schemes, lost imperatives on this malignant December night. Uncertainty and meaninglessness.
Chrissake get a few tins down the auld mouthhole everything'll be alright.

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