up oan the board, but he wid’ve jist fuckin sat thair n said fuck all if ah hudnae fuckin spoke like.
Ah wis fuckin game fir a swedge. If the cunts hud’ve fuckin come ahead it wis nae problem like. Ah mean, you ken me, ah’m no the type ay cunt thit goes lookin fir fuckin bothir likes; but ah wis the cunt wi the fuckin pool cue in ma hand, n the plukey cunt could huv the fat end ay it in his pus if he wanted, like. Obviously, ah wis cairryin ma fuckin chib n aw. Too fuckin right. Like ah sais, ah dinnae go lookin fir fuckin bother, but if any lippy cunt wants tae start, ah’m fuckin game. So the wee specky cunt’s pit his fuckin dough in, n he’s rackin up n that, ken? The plukey cunt jist sits doon n sais fuck all. Ah kept ma eye oan the hard cunt, or at least he wis a fuckin hard cunt it the school, ken. The cunt nivir sais a fuckin wurd. Kept his fuckin mooth shut awright; the cunt.
Tommy sais tae us: — Hi Franco, is that boy gittin lippy? Ye ken Tam, he’s no fuckin shy, that cunt. They fuckin heard um like, these cunts; but they nivir fuckin sais nowt again. The plukey cunt n the so-called hard cunt. N it wid’ve been two against two, cause you ken Second Prize; dinnae git us wrong, ah lap the cunt up, but he’s fuckin scoobied whin it comes tae a pagger. He’s pished ootay his fuckin heid n he kin hardly haud the fuckin pool cue. This is fuckin half-past eleven oan a Wednesday mornin wir talkin aboot here. So it wid’ve been fuckin square-gos. But they cunts sais fuck all. Ah nivir fuckin rated the plukey cunt, but ah wis fuckin disappointed in the hard cunt, or the so-called hard cunt, like. He wisnae a fuckin hard man. A fuckin shitein cunt if the truth be telt, ken. Big fuckin disappointment tae me, the cunt, ah kin tell ye.
Cock Problems
It’s fuckin grotesque tryin tae find an inlet. Yesterday ah hud tae shoot intae ma cock, where the most prominent vein in ma body is. Ah dinnae want tae get intae that habit. As difficult it is tae conceive ay it at the moment, ah may yet find other uses for the organ, besides pishing.
Now the doorbell’s going. Fuckin hell. That bastard shite-arsed fuck-up of a landlord: Baxter’s son. Auld Baxter, god rest the diddy cunt’s soul, never really bothered aboot the rent cheque. Senile auld wanker. Whenever he came roond, ah wis charm personified tae the auld cunt. Ah’d take oaf his jaykit, sit um doon, and gie um a can ay Export. We’d talk aboot the hoarses and the Hibs teams ay the fifties wi the ‘Famous Five’ forward line ay Smith, Johnstone, Reilly, Turnbull and Ormond. Ah knew nowt aboot hoarses and Hibs in the fifties, but as they wir auld Baxter’s only talking points, ah became well-versed in both subjects. Then ah’d rifle through the auld gadge’s jaykit poakits n help masel tae some cash. He eywis carried a massive wad aroond wi um. Then ah’d either pey um his ain cash, or tell the poor bastard thit ah’d already squared the cunt up.
We even used tae phone up the auld gadge if we were a bit short. Like when Spud n Sick Boy crashed here, we’d tell him a tap was leaking or windae wis broken. Sometimes we’d even break the windae oorsels, like when Sick Boy threw the auld black n white telly through it, and git the docile cunt tae come roond so’s we could rifle um. Thir wis a fuckin fortune in that cunt’s poakits. It goat so’s thit ah wis feart no tae rip um off, in case some fucker mugged um.
Now auld Baxter has gone tae the great gig in the sky; replaced by his hospice-humoured bastard ay a son. A cunt who expects rent fir this dive.
— RENT. Somebody’s shouting through the letterbox.
— Rents!
It’s no the landlord. It’s Tommy. What the fuck does the cunt want at this time?
— Haud oan Tommy. Jist comin.
Ah shoot intae ma knob for the second consecutive day. As the needle goes in, it looks like a horrible experiment being conducted on an ugly sea-snake. The gig is getting sicker by the minute. The rush wastes nae
Ah wis fuckin game fir a swedge. If the cunts hud’ve fuckin come ahead it wis nae problem like. Ah mean, you ken me, ah’m no the type ay cunt thit goes lookin fir fuckin bothir likes; but ah wis the cunt wi the fuckin pool cue in ma hand, n the plukey cunt could huv the fat end ay it in his pus if he wanted, like. Obviously, ah wis cairryin ma fuckin chib n aw. Too fuckin right. Like ah sais, ah dinnae go lookin fir fuckin bother, but if any lippy cunt wants tae start, ah’m fuckin game. So the wee specky cunt’s pit his fuckin dough in, n he’s rackin up n that, ken? The plukey cunt jist sits doon n sais fuck all. Ah kept ma eye oan the hard cunt, or at least he wis a fuckin hard cunt it the school, ken. The cunt nivir sais a fuckin wurd. Kept his fuckin mooth shut awright; the cunt.
Tommy sais tae us: — Hi Franco, is that boy gittin lippy? Ye ken Tam, he’s no fuckin shy, that cunt. They fuckin heard um like, these cunts; but they nivir fuckin sais nowt again. The plukey cunt n the so-called hard cunt. N it wid’ve been two against two, cause you ken Second Prize; dinnae git us wrong, ah lap the cunt up, but he’s fuckin scoobied whin it comes tae a pagger. He’s pished ootay his fuckin heid n he kin hardly haud the fuckin pool cue. This is fuckin half-past eleven oan a Wednesday mornin wir talkin aboot here. So it wid’ve been fuckin square-gos. But they cunts sais fuck all. Ah nivir fuckin rated the plukey cunt, but ah wis fuckin disappointed in the hard cunt, or the so-called hard cunt, like. He wisnae a fuckin hard man. A fuckin shitein cunt if the truth be telt, ken. Big fuckin disappointment tae me, the cunt, ah kin tell ye.
Cock Problems
It’s fuckin grotesque tryin tae find an inlet. Yesterday ah hud tae shoot intae ma cock, where the most prominent vein in ma body is. Ah dinnae want tae get intae that habit. As difficult it is tae conceive ay it at the moment, ah may yet find other uses for the organ, besides pishing.
Now the doorbell’s going. Fuckin hell. That bastard shite-arsed fuck-up of a landlord: Baxter’s son. Auld Baxter, god rest the diddy cunt’s soul, never really bothered aboot the rent cheque. Senile auld wanker. Whenever he came roond, ah wis charm personified tae the auld cunt. Ah’d take oaf his jaykit, sit um doon, and gie um a can ay Export. We’d talk aboot the hoarses and the Hibs teams ay the fifties wi the ‘Famous Five’ forward line ay Smith, Johnstone, Reilly, Turnbull and Ormond. Ah knew nowt aboot hoarses and Hibs in the fifties, but as they wir auld Baxter’s only talking points, ah became well-versed in both subjects. Then ah’d rifle through the auld gadge’s jaykit poakits n help masel tae some cash. He eywis carried a massive wad aroond wi um. Then ah’d either pey um his ain cash, or tell the poor bastard thit ah’d already squared the cunt up.
We even used tae phone up the auld gadge if we were a bit short. Like when Spud n Sick Boy crashed here, we’d tell him a tap was leaking or windae wis broken. Sometimes we’d even break the windae oorsels, like when Sick Boy threw the auld black n white telly through it, and git the docile cunt tae come roond so’s we could rifle um. Thir wis a fuckin fortune in that cunt’s poakits. It goat so’s thit ah wis feart no tae rip um off, in case some fucker mugged um.
Now auld Baxter has gone tae the great gig in the sky; replaced by his hospice-humoured bastard ay a son. A cunt who expects rent fir this dive.
— RENT. Somebody’s shouting through the letterbox.
— Rents!
It’s no the landlord. It’s Tommy. What the fuck does the cunt want at this time?
— Haud oan Tommy. Jist comin.
Ah shoot intae ma knob for the second consecutive day. As the needle goes in, it looks like a horrible experiment being conducted on an ugly sea-snake. The gig is getting sicker by the minute. The rush wastes nae
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