Gonna work on a new userpic tonight that I hope will turn out as well as Don't Get Lost
. Will be putting on Staplefest ! (in association with Caption
tonight in The Mitre with Dan Hartwell (he doesnt have a livejournal). As I'll not be back to late, teensy tale told to me by Rhoda Watson
of the Belfast Writers Network.
The Eleventh Night, the green square of every council estate in Protestant and some non-Protestant Ulster burns. I reckon Mattress by mattress, wooden crate by wooden crate, we rebuild ! But these moolahs they have other ideas. There are horror stories. These yahoos burn anything thats flammable. The common fare isnt so cultured as to indulge in Buckfast, 3 litre bottles of White Lightning. Its a 24 crate of Harp thing. So theyre there, swaggering around, cursing and trying to master something that passes for music : the council estate kids poking the 30ft mount with bits of stick and being told off by some bare chested muscular tattoo-ridden one. The sixbellies are at it too. Its a pulled down tight baseball cap carnival and the silly girls who live inside their tracksuits. The hardliners demonstrating who they fought this year and how they did it, whos a dead man, whos a fucking cunt, aye aye and alright tommy alright jaunty don't get yer knees done and seeya next week. One of these idiots, a staunch UVF proclaimer, takes a milk bottle filled with petrol and casts it into the flames. Its intercepted by a lamp-post. It bounces off the lamp-post. It catches the guys thick trousers and he's rolling around on the grass trying to get the stink out and trying not to catch fire. I guess what comes around goes around.