Bad Moon Rising

This morning Hugs O’Toole, formerly Snotty McShot, is feeling a little worse for wear. Worse than usual. Today, Matthew, I am Pukey Fitzfucked. I may ramble and babble and some drool may appear on the inside of your screen from time to time, as I have lost all sense of context and self-control, but do bear with me during these difficult times. It was Slint’s fault. We had a departmental outing last night to see Slint and to celebrate our new found love for the world and all its little bacteria. Even the ones in poo and on your eyeballs. This is not a royal “we” situation. I was in company. I’m sad and lonely, but I’m no asshole. When I suggested that…you know what? Mogwai are fucking awesome, thank god for CD players in computers and bosses who don’t care. That’s not what I suggested. When I suggested that a member of Slint looked like Willem Defoe in Spider-Man, I think because of the green lights and a stupid hat, I knew I was teetering on the precipice of a piss-cliff and no-one was holding my hand. I’ll get to my usual whatever in a minute although I doubt I have any hatred in me. God, what’s wrong with my fingers? So, I was pretty wobbly and I brushed off this guy at the gig. Usually this is followed by some tutting and a snarl, or in my case, nothing, but a howling of impotent rage inside and images of myself clawing at my own useless head and face. The guy turned around and said “Are you alright?” fucking sarcastic fucking fuckarse cu…“Can you see?” I almost hugged him. A beacon of humanity shining from all this hideous treachery and bile. I seem to remember a toilet attendant and standing spread legged at the toilet to avoid dipping my jeans in spilled acridity that ultimately must have failed because this morning they were solid at the ends. I think I had some kind of a rapture because of that lovely man. I skipped home listening to “Lookin’ out my back door” by Creedence, wine and beer and pasta swilling in my belly, churning into the sensation I hold right now but was spared at the time. I may have been…today there was a guy on the tube with a really stupid hair-do. Really really stupid. He was reading The Sun and the headline was Jacko V Basho and then a sub-heading “Pop king face to face with journalist", as if Jacko V Basho isn’t clear enough with their faces on there like gents involved in fisticuffs. Above that was a picture of a child and it said “This 12 year old lad, lad for fuck sake, what is this?, was killed by a drunk illegal immigrant”. In other words a poor brown man. “GUESS HOW LONG HE GOT!”. A week? Ten days tops. Eternal buggery in hell? And forks in his fingers and ketchup on his eyes? There’s a guy in The Mail, I noticed, I’m a noticer my mother once said, which doesn’t go down well sometimes, like when I told my sister her teeth were black, who’s a columnist and he has a really bad hair-do also. His name is Des Kelly. In Ireland there’s a carpet shop called Des Kelly. "Des Kelly, the carpet man"! the jingle goes. That gave Pukey a chuckle. Beside the man with the stupid hair, which was stupid because it had too much gel in it and was sticking out at funny and offensive angles and he was fat and he coughed and when he did his paper rattled and his cheeks flapped and I felt a breeze on my face, was a woman with breath that smelled like sour milk who wore Gucci sunglasses and her hair was bad too, like straw with paint spilled on it. Earlier, a couple dressed exactly the fucking same got on the train at Camden. Both wearing kakhi khaki cacky, whatever, waist length jackets and jeans and brown cowboy boots and both had trendy charity bracelets, but she had some fur trim on her jacket making it more girly. I’d imagine it was detachable and he had his fur trim in his pocket or something. I thought it was some kind of a test of my sanity and if so they were shit actors because they laughed and talked which no-one does on the tube, but then she left at Euston and kissed him and I knew it was real and I was trying not to vomit. At King’s Cross people got out of my way. At work I bought mints because I think the sour milk breath was mine. When I got off the train an hour late for work there was a poster for a new Bruce Willis movie called Hostage, which I’m sure is Die Hard but with him playing a hard as nails Dwayne T. Robinson or a muscular and white Al and the little description beside the rating said “contains strong language and violence”. The poster has Bruce holding a gun and screaming something, probably rude, and his hand is bandaged and bloody for fuck sake. Of course it contains violence and bad language. Otherwise what fucking use is it? On the Spongebob Squarepants movie it says “contains moderate peril”, nothing about sea creatures and jokes that are really a wink to the parents about sex and reality tv and arses and wine and on the Team America one it says “contains strong sex, violence and very strong language, all involving puppets”. On the poster there are strings coming out of their heads. A man stepped in front of me as I passed a shop that sells cheap phone cards and porn and sandwiches and he looked exactly like Michael Moore except he was thinner had no beard and someone from work called me but I was listening to some hippy bullshit by A Perfect Circle, so I couldn’t hear them, or rather chose to pretend I couldn’t because I obviously could. And I saw them too. My Sausage and Egg McMuffin made the same noise as that one that dude from Supersize Me bit into on his first day. Squelchy, with a hint of flobbiness and a certain hiss. Pretty tasty. I binned the hash brown because it was leaking oil and it looked like an orange turd and the coffee mixed with my sour milk breath was pretty uncomfortable in my mouth and I felt really queasy. The mints helped... you know those Polo mints? See the way they sell the holes from the Polos now? That’s fucking ridiculous. People pay 79p for that. I did anyway.

I think I see a bad moon risin’.