So there I was, happily queuing up in the Centra near the Bleeding Horse this afternoon, forgetting to buy both bread AND a paper, when I decided I better take my earphones out - you know, to be polite to the lad behind the counter. And also cos he was a foreign and would probably talk funny to me at some stage.
On doing so, I heard the distinctive nasally mating call of the lesser spotted “Addicticus Responsibus” - the heroin addict doing something relatively ‘normal’. You often see this particular breed of junkie around town from time to time, and instead of sticking syringes in peoples faces and lying in puddles of their own various bodily secretions by the canal, they’ll be doing something constructive with the 25 sober minutes of their day.
Be it holding back bus queues to let pensioners on (”There yeh go love, alrigh’ GEH BACK HANG ON YIS PRICKS alrigh’ love on yeh go..”) or in this case, doing a bit of a shop for the essentials, it always fills my heart with joy that under the hardened shell of aids ridden bastardness, lies a somewhat responsible adult.
Well not so much ‘joy’, more of a feeling of “who the fuck are you trying to kid you diseased little scrote?”
Anyhoo, this shrunken headed cunt was almost bent double in front of me, fishing in the RIGHT back pocket of his brown jeans with his LEFT hand in a manner that made it look like he was wrist deep in his own rectum, when his ladyfriend approached with her supply of grub for the week.
After she’d plonked her Oriental Pot Noodle beside his own BBQ flavoured noodley treat (the vile green on the Pot Noodle packaging matched the soles of his Air Max - aaww!) I saw that he was holding a plastic bag. In it was a copy of the Metro, a couple of bottles of Diet Coke - don’t want to get fat, that Heroin goes straight to your hips lads - and a packet of fags.
Oh, and a rubber gripped steel claw hammer.
I wonder if he needed it for work? Or maybe they were going home to hang a few pictures. Either way, he was prepared for hammering something. Probably in the head. And the weekend that’s in it, probably also Welsh.
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I’m getting excited. There’s a growing anti-skob movement going on here, I think finally we can rid of them.. by the way, there’s a pciture of me up in my mums wearing a tracksuit on a Sunday.. this doesn’t make me a target too does it?
Yeah you’re excused.
For now.
who the fuck are you trying to kid you diseased little scrote?” quality……and accurate….
Reminds me of the time a smackhead tried to rob a whole cooked chicken. Looking pregnant, with grease drippin onto his levis he whispered to his mate ‘would you notice would ya?’
Disgrace is not excused.
He’s a neo-Skobe. He walks around like a educated, refined, culturally aware humanoid but beneath the surface is a dutch-gold swilling, johnny blue puffing, byrlcremmed heafed ‘n-trace’ fan.
Seriously, he eats Big Al’s chicken fillets for Christ sakes.
Don’t forgive him. He’s one stop away from a Celtic jersey.
It’s a trap.
Fakey, I do not Smoke. N’Trace (sic) haven’t released a good record in years, I only use Brylcreem as lubricant and that ‘Big Al’s’ was back in 1996, and his name wasn’t even Al. Now, go back to masturbating into wine bottles
get a room
“masturbating into wine bottles” nobody who hasn’t tried that would ever think of it, even I am disgusted