Homecoming

Ouch! Fuck me! What bollix put that there? Me bleeding shins. Jesus, would someone put the light on before I banjax meself altogether!

Click.

Oh for chrissakes would you ever turn it off again. The state of this fucking place. You could choke a camel on the dust in here and would someone ever open a window. The smell of this kip is enough to gag a tramp.

Where did all those empty bottles come from? I don't drink Thunderbird and that mattress wasn't there last time I looked. Please God those stains aren't what I think they are...

I don't know, you turn your back for a moment and dereliction sets in. I'm lucky this blog hasn't been squatted by a posse of new age travellers with their fecking digeridoos, dogs on a string, German army surplus dreadlocks and the entire Levellers back catalogue. Maybe it has. Which would explain the pong of patchouli oil coming from that tattered sleeping bag in the corner.

Still and all, a quick spin around with the Dyson, a dash of Pledge and a bucket of carbolic should see things right....

Anyway, I know I've promised before, but this time I mean it. This blog is going to be kept up to date, on the ball, and up to snuff if it kills me. Just watch this space (but don't hold your breath unless you particularly see puce as your colour).

So just to be going on with, I found this old hobo asleep in the far corner of the blog. His name is Seasick Steve and he's not a bad old stick for a man who plays a guitar with 3 strings. We split a quart of T-bird over a graveyard stew and he told me he's playing the National Stadium in Dublin on the 29th if he can't jump the blind on a dice train out town before then.



As me new mate Seasick would say' Y'all have a nice time and come back this way soon, now'


The photograph above was nicked and adapted from Matt's photostream on Flickr The man knows how to point a camera. Check him out.