The Diary of a Deleted Person
by John McGroarty
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: The perils of listening to a rich and powerful American imbecile who wears a blond brush-over flicky wig.
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Monday
First up I want to say that I am not a great writer, or a bad writer, or a corrupted smelly journalist, or counter of tail’s, singer of song’s, I am no tipe of writer at all. In fact I hate them. I am writing this diari for the posteriti of myself. For little Graham and small Ronnie so that they will no the truth of the time there father lived in and the thought’s he had and the one’s he didnt have will never be known for they will not be in this book. They will ….. not exist anywhere! Thats a profound one! Shuggie and Kelly and the Mountie’s are all doing blog’s and book’s up there on the internet. Kellys a regular on the sun and mail. Hes called Kellygun2. One of the Mountie’s is called Bunty McGeady. It was a rainy day to-day and I had to wear my waterproof’s and I sweated bucket’s , that I think will come as no surprise to you boy’s, or to anyone, as you to will live in this great wet dreich land we who love her call Scotland. Oh but how green it all is! That is the thing that make’s me so sad I have no word’s just salty tear’s. You to will go down her streaming street’s in wet shoe’s and hair and get bronchitis and smoke Regal’s KING SIZE and drink and fish supper the best that she has to offer. I dont think that fish supper is a doing word but I like how it hang’s in the sentence and how it sum’s up thing’s of my life and clog’s up our arterie’s and vein’s and hold’s us back from doing anything out of the extraordinari in life. Know that pie’s and haggis’ and black pudding’s do so to. I ask your patience with me and my spelling and my erratic rambling and that you get a good education at a uni as good spelling and grammar and diction and politeness are important and will set you on the road to success in any field or endevar. Right thought is the most important though. Be careful to be a right thinker and not to let badnes’s into your heart. Evil Evelyn always told me that though I never paid any attention so all my teeth rotted and your mother went off with Frankie Valery and moved into that flat that you no so well in the Spittal. By the time you read this I will be oldish or dead. Or mental. The world is at its end. You or your friend’s or your family or your auntie’s might disagree with this. Thats your predilection. Your all free people in this country to give your opinion. I care little. I am what I am. You can croak till your blue in the face but I didnt rattle your cage and your feather’s flutter for no real purpose. I can feel history moving across the land. The time of u’s is coming now, coming soon, I can feel it in the pit of my stomach and my big toe’s. We must recognize that we are the moral one’s. Yes, that is a truth that the corrupt Obama’s, Corby’s, Holland’s , wont tell you. We must be strongish for the evil is at the door, is pressing the buzzer bell, battering down our bridge’s and our border’s. Laugh out loud if you like. Mock! It is a fact corrified by top leading American academic’s and intellect’s that there be levels of development in moraliti. We are the first and the muslim race are the lowest. They are very cunning and clever and the inferior people on this palnet. It’s like the X Factor. Everybody get’s to vote now, game’s vote’s. Even all the immigrant’s and stupid undereducated. Like I was dead mad when Lady C got voted. And on and on it goe’s. IAM IN A PASSION now and my brain is squeeking out truth’s very profound one’s. We are the moraly super’s and we must admit it to ourselve’s. The corrupt politician’s must tell the people the truth. But what happens when I try to spaeak? I am a deleted person. I do not like to be that deleted one. Not at all. That they never let my voice be heard. Do it to someone else! To Murphygun2 and Bunty McGeady but not me! And the real EVIL, not Evil Evelyn, your grandmother, who is a really good person and heavy smoker of embassy tipped Virginia blend and a survivor, no the real EVIL is the muslim ideology. The ISIS are only the symtom, those who flap and flutter your cages and the tip of the iceberg I tell you. The deep root is the sharia, the desire to subjagate all good person’s and democrat’s. They are the symtom and not the disease. The disease is all religion. Cristan’s, Budda’s, Hindie’s, Seek’s, all of you are not secular. But thats enough my son’s for the moment. These word’s are mine and cant be deleted and will reach out into posterity now. God willing. Ha ha. LOL.
Wednesday
I hate this place where I live. So would you! I am a hard working majority person. I am a striver. A strivers striver. More than I can say for all the skiver’s around these part’s. They are all scum and dirt and should be deported somewhere. Its like last Hogmanay when I went to visit Larry in the home. Larry is your uncle who only has one leg. He and his wife your auntie Mary live in a wee flat and we were there with Margret Todd and Jenni Bell and they all went a bit mental and wanted some fag’s and booze for celebrating the Bell’s. There lazy wasteful baby boomers but there family. Mary used to call Larry Captain Glasgow and I still here her saying, “oh, if only Captin Glasga wiz here,” in that raspy fag-burnt voice of her’s. And how sad Larry looked and crestfallen, I think thats the word, how disappointed Jenni Bell and Margret Todd were also. So I went home and got some bottle’s out of the wee cupboard under the sink in the kitchen at the back of the hoose in a big whopper plastic bag from azda and then went down to the all night garage to get fag’s for the feast. How could I no when they were all sitting in wee paper hats and tooting and nothing to cheer us into the New Year with. I went to buy the fag’s when 2 scum bam’s attacked me and stole the whopper bag of booze and my wallet and dezzy boot’s. They battered me over the heed wae a bottle of irn bru and I had a concussion and a frostbite and the polis wrote a report and said that they would let me no. That was ten month’s ago and nothing. Zilch. And that wee Paki guy in the service station wouldnt open the door so I could escape from the 2 bam’s. And they don’t want to bomb ISIS!!! Cowardi Corbi chop’s. He shut the shutter’s and let them batter and abuse me and my body and Larry and Mary and them all didnt get a wee belt of whisky or a gasp of a fag on Hogmanay and all. And Marys deed now. And Jenni Bell’s gone really mental gaga. And Larry still has only one leg. Its all so cruel. Salty tear’s in my heart it all cause’s. And what do we do? We accept more refugee’s when our own people dont have nothing. Have to go to foodbank’s and cant afford to put on there heater’s and get attacked by bam’s way no care in there heart or love for there brohter’s. A reckoning is coming I tell you. Well, these fuckwit’s scumbag’s next door they dont want to work. They told me that. “Neither work nor waant” they said. Philosopher’s they say they are. Criminal’s is what they are. Like all those dodger’s who dont want to pay the bedroom tax. Living in there mansion’s and mug’s like me paying for it all. Every day I get up at half past four anti meridiam and go to the post office and do my round and work till my finishing time and pay my taxe’s and support those scum in there lap of luxury life of Ralagh. Last week I was shitting tying to watch posh pawnbrokers drinking my tea all calm when the wall started to shake and jive and the whole hoose was about to fall and break and when I looked out it was a swot team of polis bursting in there door and twenty minute’s later they take them away in a paddy wagon. There dealing in drug’s. Scum. Simple. No other word’s. I never spoke to them even when they saw me doing the front garden and Jake come’s out and start’s telling me about all his ailment’s even though I care nothing and want them to be deported. Jakes wine is the worst. Showing me the ulcer’s hes got all over his back and gut’s. they never apologized for the day there pit bull tried to rape me. It really pisse’s me off. There quiet now. Cause there in the pokey. What we need. More pokey’s for all the scum who dont want to work. Who just scrounge and winge and laugh at we decent folk’s hard worker’s. Deport them all to pokeyland!Scum is what they are, aye, scum and filth. I am going to my scratcher now as I have to get up at four thirty anti meridiam to work and pay for all the dodger’s! Night night my boy’s! A big kiss from daddys posterity!!
Friday night
I dont think I should be telling you this boy’s as I dont want to turn you against your mother and Frankie even though she is a worthless slut and he a fat coniferous bastard. But im in luv!! Her name I dont know but shes a wee goddess and work’s at the pakis in the main street. I always go in to buy 10 bensons and a small squeezy ribena to kwench my burning first after the round in the morning. Sometimes I buy, friday’s, a packet of malteser’s for energy and as a wee treat. She has long blonde hair and smallish tit’s. Just the way I alway’s like them. Today she smiled at me. I went straight home and put on “Duke” by Genesis and didnt even masturbate. What got me through, pulled me through the mental trauma when your mother went off with the fat convivial cuntie. I just thought about her s’mile. In her wee blue pinny and croc’s. I must confess that I have been in luv for month’s and have been planning her escape from the pakis harem islamic state. Im sure he must have put some spell on her. That drug they take. Put it in her tea tea mug. Hes probably grooming her to be a jihadi. I know cause I read in the mail all about the sharia wife’s. How they are biast against the wimin. There just like slave’s the wimin in islam you no?. Where are all the feminist’s now, eh? Your mother, and Shami Chakrabotti and the feminazis!! Putting there fingers in your ears and humming when other’s are spaeaking truth’s they dont want to here. I must save her. Its my mission now, my salvation. Perhap’s god gas spoken to me. I had a daft dream last month that now I understand. I was in the lift in the flat’s in Caledonia Road and some big guy gave me dozen’s of wee Scottie dog’s to look after and I couldnt and the lift door was closing and squashing them and I was frantic trying to save the poor wee dog’s. Its time we white post men stood up for whats right and decent and proper. Enough is enough is enough. So I spoke to Archie Brown in Staffing at the PO and he said that she could start anytime she liked. I am overjoyed at the thought of my luv working with me!! Maybe we could get a round next to each other and go to the Jaggy Thistle kafe for the full monty breakfast and into the Shawlands for lunch time sessions. I wrote a poem.
Down the s’treet you and me shall go my little luv,
With our sack’s and pack’s and letter’s. And when your tired
I shall give you a wee shuv,
And fear not we shall ever never be fired!
I have another confession oh dear diary. I no its nauty and weird but I have been watching her for over three week’s in my spare time. She doesnt have a boyfriend or a husband or a loverboy or i’s a lezzie. She has a small green car. She goe’s to the gym every day. She diappear’s into the library to for hour’s and hour’s. I sneaked in and watched from behind the cds. She was reading and taking note’s in a wee jotter but I couldnt see what she was reading as she was to far. Then this wee junkie guy wae a runny snorking nose ce’s my postie uniform and start’s about no getting his giro and there is almost a scene and I have to make a strategic withdrawal. I stood outside in the rain and followed her home when she came out in case the islamic state tried to abduct her before I could get her into the scratcher and then I went for a bag of chip’s and pickle’s and went up the road. I have to be up early to pay for all the scrounger’s but I am elated and drift off thinking about her in a wee blue postie uniform.
Saturday morning
Last night I was over the moon just mad about the girl and now I am in bliss cloud nine. She said ye’s! Aye, she said ye’s! We have a date for Saturday night!! My plan is working out perfect. The day started well and me and Kelly and two of the Mountie’s, Sinbad and Butter Bean, and big Gerry Monty went to the Jaggy Thistle kafe for breakfast. Wee Jaggy was ecstatic to see us all and didnt charge for the toast. Kelly agreed that the time of u’s was coming soon and ate my black pudding as I hate black pudding. Butter Bean had haggis slices instead and I was a bit jealous and buttered a lot of toast in an angry way. Sinbad and Butter Bean told us that another ranger’s guy mountie called Hill Billy was tooled up and that we should do the same and be dead vigilant alway’s. I told them about the American guy’s I read on the internet and that we were the moral one’s. We all agreed. Then big Gerry Monty who drive’s the van’s spoke about Donny Trumpet and the paradise to come when the muslim’s were under control and in ou’r pocket’s. When there loony age had passed. Donny Trumpet and big Gerry Monty who drive’s the van’s had deep thought’s and a good concrete paln. All muslim’s should be registered on a big computer data list and tagged. No vale’s or burka’s or wee cap’s or towel’s allowed or those flowing robe’s neither. We all have to be vigilant and report imediataly anything suspicious to the poli’s. The fret is reel. I was a wee bit weezy about the poli’s after they had not investigated right the 2 bam’s that stopped Larry and Mary from getting a wee puff last bell’s and gave me a concussion and frostbite. Sinbad said that he was going to change his name to Trumpet Slave as it sounded suspicious and that he hoped we would cooperate and that we could all be the Trumpeteer’s! Everybody was happy gleeful at this and we had another round of tea. Butter Bean suggested shaving off our hair and buying wee blonde brush over flicky wig’s. Then Gerry Monty took us up to the office in the back of his wee van and we all went our seprate way’s on second delivery. When I was finished I went into the pakis and bought my squeezy ribena to kwench my first and I just blurted out if she wanted to come for a drink on saturday night and that I wouldnt be wearing my uniform and that I would have a bath, shave and put on deodorant and not wear my waterproof’s but would bring an umbrella in case of rain and pay for the drink’s. She laughed when I said all this for five minute’s with real tear’s and said that I was a really funny postman and a wonderful ironist (?) and that she would love to have a drink and that we could meet outside the library at 8.30 and that she would get dolled up and wouldnt wear her pinny or croc’s either. Oh diary, oh my son’s, my luvli boy’s, I am so happy that she think’s I am a funny postman and an ironist (?) and she want’s to doll up and go down the boozers with me on Saturday night . Oh kaloo kalli, my son’s! Oh come saturday night, oh come saturday night!!
Sunday
Its sunday morning dear dear diary and im in bliss over the rainbow in luv mad about the girl. Total success! Her names Eileen McCann and shes the luv of my life oh my son’s. More than the bitch youz call mummikin’s. I arrived early for our date. An hour early. I confess I was a bit nervous as I don’t like it when people use wurd’s I dont no. I looked on the internet for ironist and it said that I was someone who use’s ironi in there literary work’s. I looked for irony but it was to complicated and my head busted. Even more than when Gerry Monty is pontificating so I took it as a complament cause I luv the wee bird. She noticed I was nervous and seemed to like it. As we walked down the street a paki family came out of Kentucky fried chicken and I was vigilant. The mother and one of the kidz went up a close and the father and the older son turned down toward’s azda. I was vigilant all goose bumped and hair and nerve’s on end. I said to Eileen that one of them had said alli akba before they parted and that the 2 male’s were going to terrorize azda and that the chicken wing’s were probably there last supper and that we should fone the poli’s. She roared with lafter and put her arm thru mine and said that I was the funniest guy she had ever met and what was I doing working for the post office when I was so smart and a top satirist (?). I had no clue what she meant but I was all tingly and hoped to get my hole so sorry victims and big Gerry Monty and Donny Trumpet I forgot about vigilance and we went to the snooker club for a bevvi. Wee Eileen was a brandy and coke bird and she got 5 of them down her neck and buy the end of the night she was well pished. We spoke about you my son’s and I told her about the slut of your mother and the sadness in my heart for the rain and my salty tear’s and the jaggy thistle and how much I loved wee Jaggy but not his black pudding. I then spoke about the evil’s of black pudding’s and about how I never listened to Evil Evelyn and that that was a mistake as you should listen to your mum and not think you are to smarti pant’s. She lafed and lafed and said that she had discovered a natural and that I should be on the telli. We then went back to my hoose and had sex in the scratcher. Im to much gentleman to tell details even to you oh diary but she had a funny looking fanny and wasnt wearing a braziere. As I was nackered from getting up at the crack of the dawn to work to support all the scrounger’s through my taxe’s I conked out right away and when I woke up Eileen was sitting at the other end of the bed looking at me real strange. She had been reading you oh diary and she said that she was confused. I opened my heart of goodnes’s then and told her about the new job and life that was waiting for her and that I wouldnt let the Islamic state get her and about the Trumpeteer’s and the brush over wig’s and the beauty of the future we would have together when the enemy was vankwished.. Her eye’s narrowed and she didn’t laf and I was in despair. I said that hopefully I would prove to be an ironist, a person who use’s ironi in hi’s literary work’s. She had a mad (angri) look on her pretty wee mush and she covered herself up way a sheet. I told her that I was in luv way her. She lafed now even more than before and I started to get worrit that she was gonnae have a hairy fit or something. She then moved over to me and gave me a cuddle. She said that I was the s’tupidest person she had ever met and that I needed to learn how to use the saxon genital very badly, ye’s please (!) but she said that she liked how I cried at the rain and the greenness of the country called Scotland that we all luv and how I luvd Larry who only had one leg and that it hurt me the cruelty of all our live’s. She then said something strange. She said that I had something called talent (?) as a writer but I needed educating. She told me that no matter what the big American intellect’s say there are no level’s of morality and that big Gerry Monty and the Mountie’s and Donny Trumpet are all pure numptie daftie’s and that she want’s me to set up a meeting with them to put them all straight. Well, my son’s Eileen has told me to s’top writing in the diary till she educate’s me and polishe’s my talent (?) and my saxon genital (??). So this is the last entry for a wee while. She made me promise to finish it like this. She said that I would be a deleted person to for publishing this in the paper’s on the internet but that she wanted it down so that we wouldnt forget and that the great mind’s would want us to not know and to think that the time of u´s would come soon but that it will never ever come so we better jist get u’sed to it. We are not the moral super’s. Its about a place called Iraq by a journalist called Jo Wilding and Eileen corrected what I wrote. Good night my son’s. What I do from now on I do only for you and for my wee Eileen. Here it i’s my boy’s:
“Screaming women come in, praying, slapping their chests and faces, “Ummi, my mother,” one cries. I hold her until Maki, a consultant and acting director of the clinic, brings me to the bed where a child of about ten is lying with a bullet wound to the head. A smaller child is being treated for a similar injury in the next bed. A US sniper hit them as they left their home to flee Falluja.
The lights go out, the fan stops and in the sudden quiet someone holds up the flame of a cigarette lighter for the doctor to carry on operating by. The electricity to the town has been cut off for days, and when the generator runs out they just have to manage until it comes back on. The children are not going to live.”
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: The perils of listening to a rich and powerful American imbecile who wears a blond brush-over flicky wig.
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Monday
First up I want to say that I am not a great writer, or a bad writer, or a corrupted smelly journalist, or counter of tail’s, singer of song’s, I am no tipe of writer at all. In fact I hate them. I am writing this diari for the posteriti of myself. For little Graham and small Ronnie so that they will no the truth of the time there father lived in and the thought’s he had and the one’s he didnt have will never be known for they will not be in this book. They will ….. not exist anywhere! Thats a profound one! Shuggie and Kelly and the Mountie’s are all doing blog’s and book’s up there on the internet. Kellys a regular on the sun and mail. Hes called Kellygun2. One of the Mountie’s is called Bunty McGeady. It was a rainy day to-day and I had to wear my waterproof’s and I sweated bucket’s , that I think will come as no surprise to you boy’s, or to anyone, as you to will live in this great wet dreich land we who love her call Scotland. Oh but how green it all is! That is the thing that make’s me so sad I have no word’s just salty tear’s. You to will go down her streaming street’s in wet shoe’s and hair and get bronchitis and smoke Regal’s KING SIZE and drink and fish supper the best that she has to offer. I dont think that fish supper is a doing word but I like how it hang’s in the sentence and how it sum’s up thing’s of my life and clog’s up our arterie’s and vein’s and hold’s us back from doing anything out of the extraordinari in life. Know that pie’s and haggis’ and black pudding’s do so to. I ask your patience with me and my spelling and my erratic rambling and that you get a good education at a uni as good spelling and grammar and diction and politeness are important and will set you on the road to success in any field or endevar. Right thought is the most important though. Be careful to be a right thinker and not to let badnes’s into your heart. Evil Evelyn always told me that though I never paid any attention so all my teeth rotted and your mother went off with Frankie Valery and moved into that flat that you no so well in the Spittal. By the time you read this I will be oldish or dead. Or mental. The world is at its end. You or your friend’s or your family or your auntie’s might disagree with this. Thats your predilection. Your all free people in this country to give your opinion. I care little. I am what I am. You can croak till your blue in the face but I didnt rattle your cage and your feather’s flutter for no real purpose. I can feel history moving across the land. The time of u’s is coming now, coming soon, I can feel it in the pit of my stomach and my big toe’s. We must recognize that we are the moral one’s. Yes, that is a truth that the corrupt Obama’s, Corby’s, Holland’s , wont tell you. We must be strongish for the evil is at the door, is pressing the buzzer bell, battering down our bridge’s and our border’s. Laugh out loud if you like. Mock! It is a fact corrified by top leading American academic’s and intellect’s that there be levels of development in moraliti. We are the first and the muslim race are the lowest. They are very cunning and clever and the inferior people on this palnet. It’s like the X Factor. Everybody get’s to vote now, game’s vote’s. Even all the immigrant’s and stupid undereducated. Like I was dead mad when Lady C got voted. And on and on it goe’s. IAM IN A PASSION now and my brain is squeeking out truth’s very profound one’s. We are the moraly super’s and we must admit it to ourselve’s. The corrupt politician’s must tell the people the truth. But what happens when I try to spaeak? I am a deleted person. I do not like to be that deleted one. Not at all. That they never let my voice be heard. Do it to someone else! To Murphygun2 and Bunty McGeady but not me! And the real EVIL, not Evil Evelyn, your grandmother, who is a really good person and heavy smoker of embassy tipped Virginia blend and a survivor, no the real EVIL is the muslim ideology. The ISIS are only the symtom, those who flap and flutter your cages and the tip of the iceberg I tell you. The deep root is the sharia, the desire to subjagate all good person’s and democrat’s. They are the symtom and not the disease. The disease is all religion. Cristan’s, Budda’s, Hindie’s, Seek’s, all of you are not secular. But thats enough my son’s for the moment. These word’s are mine and cant be deleted and will reach out into posterity now. God willing. Ha ha. LOL.
Wednesday
I hate this place where I live. So would you! I am a hard working majority person. I am a striver. A strivers striver. More than I can say for all the skiver’s around these part’s. They are all scum and dirt and should be deported somewhere. Its like last Hogmanay when I went to visit Larry in the home. Larry is your uncle who only has one leg. He and his wife your auntie Mary live in a wee flat and we were there with Margret Todd and Jenni Bell and they all went a bit mental and wanted some fag’s and booze for celebrating the Bell’s. There lazy wasteful baby boomers but there family. Mary used to call Larry Captain Glasgow and I still here her saying, “oh, if only Captin Glasga wiz here,” in that raspy fag-burnt voice of her’s. And how sad Larry looked and crestfallen, I think thats the word, how disappointed Jenni Bell and Margret Todd were also. So I went home and got some bottle’s out of the wee cupboard under the sink in the kitchen at the back of the hoose in a big whopper plastic bag from azda and then went down to the all night garage to get fag’s for the feast. How could I no when they were all sitting in wee paper hats and tooting and nothing to cheer us into the New Year with. I went to buy the fag’s when 2 scum bam’s attacked me and stole the whopper bag of booze and my wallet and dezzy boot’s. They battered me over the heed wae a bottle of irn bru and I had a concussion and a frostbite and the polis wrote a report and said that they would let me no. That was ten month’s ago and nothing. Zilch. And that wee Paki guy in the service station wouldnt open the door so I could escape from the 2 bam’s. And they don’t want to bomb ISIS!!! Cowardi Corbi chop’s. He shut the shutter’s and let them batter and abuse me and my body and Larry and Mary and them all didnt get a wee belt of whisky or a gasp of a fag on Hogmanay and all. And Marys deed now. And Jenni Bell’s gone really mental gaga. And Larry still has only one leg. Its all so cruel. Salty tear’s in my heart it all cause’s. And what do we do? We accept more refugee’s when our own people dont have nothing. Have to go to foodbank’s and cant afford to put on there heater’s and get attacked by bam’s way no care in there heart or love for there brohter’s. A reckoning is coming I tell you. Well, these fuckwit’s scumbag’s next door they dont want to work. They told me that. “Neither work nor waant” they said. Philosopher’s they say they are. Criminal’s is what they are. Like all those dodger’s who dont want to pay the bedroom tax. Living in there mansion’s and mug’s like me paying for it all. Every day I get up at half past four anti meridiam and go to the post office and do my round and work till my finishing time and pay my taxe’s and support those scum in there lap of luxury life of Ralagh. Last week I was shitting tying to watch posh pawnbrokers drinking my tea all calm when the wall started to shake and jive and the whole hoose was about to fall and break and when I looked out it was a swot team of polis bursting in there door and twenty minute’s later they take them away in a paddy wagon. There dealing in drug’s. Scum. Simple. No other word’s. I never spoke to them even when they saw me doing the front garden and Jake come’s out and start’s telling me about all his ailment’s even though I care nothing and want them to be deported. Jakes wine is the worst. Showing me the ulcer’s hes got all over his back and gut’s. they never apologized for the day there pit bull tried to rape me. It really pisse’s me off. There quiet now. Cause there in the pokey. What we need. More pokey’s for all the scum who dont want to work. Who just scrounge and winge and laugh at we decent folk’s hard worker’s. Deport them all to pokeyland!Scum is what they are, aye, scum and filth. I am going to my scratcher now as I have to get up at four thirty anti meridiam to work and pay for all the dodger’s! Night night my boy’s! A big kiss from daddys posterity!!
Friday night
I dont think I should be telling you this boy’s as I dont want to turn you against your mother and Frankie even though she is a worthless slut and he a fat coniferous bastard. But im in luv!! Her name I dont know but shes a wee goddess and work’s at the pakis in the main street. I always go in to buy 10 bensons and a small squeezy ribena to kwench my burning first after the round in the morning. Sometimes I buy, friday’s, a packet of malteser’s for energy and as a wee treat. She has long blonde hair and smallish tit’s. Just the way I alway’s like them. Today she smiled at me. I went straight home and put on “Duke” by Genesis and didnt even masturbate. What got me through, pulled me through the mental trauma when your mother went off with the fat convivial cuntie. I just thought about her s’mile. In her wee blue pinny and croc’s. I must confess that I have been in luv for month’s and have been planning her escape from the pakis harem islamic state. Im sure he must have put some spell on her. That drug they take. Put it in her tea tea mug. Hes probably grooming her to be a jihadi. I know cause I read in the mail all about the sharia wife’s. How they are biast against the wimin. There just like slave’s the wimin in islam you no?. Where are all the feminist’s now, eh? Your mother, and Shami Chakrabotti and the feminazis!! Putting there fingers in your ears and humming when other’s are spaeaking truth’s they dont want to here. I must save her. Its my mission now, my salvation. Perhap’s god gas spoken to me. I had a daft dream last month that now I understand. I was in the lift in the flat’s in Caledonia Road and some big guy gave me dozen’s of wee Scottie dog’s to look after and I couldnt and the lift door was closing and squashing them and I was frantic trying to save the poor wee dog’s. Its time we white post men stood up for whats right and decent and proper. Enough is enough is enough. So I spoke to Archie Brown in Staffing at the PO and he said that she could start anytime she liked. I am overjoyed at the thought of my luv working with me!! Maybe we could get a round next to each other and go to the Jaggy Thistle kafe for the full monty breakfast and into the Shawlands for lunch time sessions. I wrote a poem.
Down the s’treet you and me shall go my little luv,
With our sack’s and pack’s and letter’s. And when your tired
I shall give you a wee shuv,
And fear not we shall ever never be fired!
I have another confession oh dear diary. I no its nauty and weird but I have been watching her for over three week’s in my spare time. She doesnt have a boyfriend or a husband or a loverboy or i’s a lezzie. She has a small green car. She goe’s to the gym every day. She diappear’s into the library to for hour’s and hour’s. I sneaked in and watched from behind the cds. She was reading and taking note’s in a wee jotter but I couldnt see what she was reading as she was to far. Then this wee junkie guy wae a runny snorking nose ce’s my postie uniform and start’s about no getting his giro and there is almost a scene and I have to make a strategic withdrawal. I stood outside in the rain and followed her home when she came out in case the islamic state tried to abduct her before I could get her into the scratcher and then I went for a bag of chip’s and pickle’s and went up the road. I have to be up early to pay for all the scrounger’s but I am elated and drift off thinking about her in a wee blue postie uniform.
Saturday morning
Last night I was over the moon just mad about the girl and now I am in bliss cloud nine. She said ye’s! Aye, she said ye’s! We have a date for Saturday night!! My plan is working out perfect. The day started well and me and Kelly and two of the Mountie’s, Sinbad and Butter Bean, and big Gerry Monty went to the Jaggy Thistle kafe for breakfast. Wee Jaggy was ecstatic to see us all and didnt charge for the toast. Kelly agreed that the time of u’s was coming soon and ate my black pudding as I hate black pudding. Butter Bean had haggis slices instead and I was a bit jealous and buttered a lot of toast in an angry way. Sinbad and Butter Bean told us that another ranger’s guy mountie called Hill Billy was tooled up and that we should do the same and be dead vigilant alway’s. I told them about the American guy’s I read on the internet and that we were the moral one’s. We all agreed. Then big Gerry Monty who drive’s the van’s spoke about Donny Trumpet and the paradise to come when the muslim’s were under control and in ou’r pocket’s. When there loony age had passed. Donny Trumpet and big Gerry Monty who drive’s the van’s had deep thought’s and a good concrete paln. All muslim’s should be registered on a big computer data list and tagged. No vale’s or burka’s or wee cap’s or towel’s allowed or those flowing robe’s neither. We all have to be vigilant and report imediataly anything suspicious to the poli’s. The fret is reel. I was a wee bit weezy about the poli’s after they had not investigated right the 2 bam’s that stopped Larry and Mary from getting a wee puff last bell’s and gave me a concussion and frostbite. Sinbad said that he was going to change his name to Trumpet Slave as it sounded suspicious and that he hoped we would cooperate and that we could all be the Trumpeteer’s! Everybody was happy gleeful at this and we had another round of tea. Butter Bean suggested shaving off our hair and buying wee blonde brush over flicky wig’s. Then Gerry Monty took us up to the office in the back of his wee van and we all went our seprate way’s on second delivery. When I was finished I went into the pakis and bought my squeezy ribena to kwench my first and I just blurted out if she wanted to come for a drink on saturday night and that I wouldnt be wearing my uniform and that I would have a bath, shave and put on deodorant and not wear my waterproof’s but would bring an umbrella in case of rain and pay for the drink’s. She laughed when I said all this for five minute’s with real tear’s and said that I was a really funny postman and a wonderful ironist (?) and that she would love to have a drink and that we could meet outside the library at 8.30 and that she would get dolled up and wouldnt wear her pinny or croc’s either. Oh diary, oh my son’s, my luvli boy’s, I am so happy that she think’s I am a funny postman and an ironist (?) and she want’s to doll up and go down the boozers with me on Saturday night . Oh kaloo kalli, my son’s! Oh come saturday night, oh come saturday night!!
Sunday
Its sunday morning dear dear diary and im in bliss over the rainbow in luv mad about the girl. Total success! Her names Eileen McCann and shes the luv of my life oh my son’s. More than the bitch youz call mummikin’s. I arrived early for our date. An hour early. I confess I was a bit nervous as I don’t like it when people use wurd’s I dont no. I looked on the internet for ironist and it said that I was someone who use’s ironi in there literary work’s. I looked for irony but it was to complicated and my head busted. Even more than when Gerry Monty is pontificating so I took it as a complament cause I luv the wee bird. She noticed I was nervous and seemed to like it. As we walked down the street a paki family came out of Kentucky fried chicken and I was vigilant. The mother and one of the kidz went up a close and the father and the older son turned down toward’s azda. I was vigilant all goose bumped and hair and nerve’s on end. I said to Eileen that one of them had said alli akba before they parted and that the 2 male’s were going to terrorize azda and that the chicken wing’s were probably there last supper and that we should fone the poli’s. She roared with lafter and put her arm thru mine and said that I was the funniest guy she had ever met and what was I doing working for the post office when I was so smart and a top satirist (?). I had no clue what she meant but I was all tingly and hoped to get my hole so sorry victims and big Gerry Monty and Donny Trumpet I forgot about vigilance and we went to the snooker club for a bevvi. Wee Eileen was a brandy and coke bird and she got 5 of them down her neck and buy the end of the night she was well pished. We spoke about you my son’s and I told her about the slut of your mother and the sadness in my heart for the rain and my salty tear’s and the jaggy thistle and how much I loved wee Jaggy but not his black pudding. I then spoke about the evil’s of black pudding’s and about how I never listened to Evil Evelyn and that that was a mistake as you should listen to your mum and not think you are to smarti pant’s. She lafed and lafed and said that she had discovered a natural and that I should be on the telli. We then went back to my hoose and had sex in the scratcher. Im to much gentleman to tell details even to you oh diary but she had a funny looking fanny and wasnt wearing a braziere. As I was nackered from getting up at the crack of the dawn to work to support all the scrounger’s through my taxe’s I conked out right away and when I woke up Eileen was sitting at the other end of the bed looking at me real strange. She had been reading you oh diary and she said that she was confused. I opened my heart of goodnes’s then and told her about the new job and life that was waiting for her and that I wouldnt let the Islamic state get her and about the Trumpeteer’s and the brush over wig’s and the beauty of the future we would have together when the enemy was vankwished.. Her eye’s narrowed and she didn’t laf and I was in despair. I said that hopefully I would prove to be an ironist, a person who use’s ironi in hi’s literary work’s. She had a mad (angri) look on her pretty wee mush and she covered herself up way a sheet. I told her that I was in luv way her. She lafed now even more than before and I started to get worrit that she was gonnae have a hairy fit or something. She then moved over to me and gave me a cuddle. She said that I was the s’tupidest person she had ever met and that I needed to learn how to use the saxon genital very badly, ye’s please (!) but she said that she liked how I cried at the rain and the greenness of the country called Scotland that we all luv and how I luvd Larry who only had one leg and that it hurt me the cruelty of all our live’s. She then said something strange. She said that I had something called talent (?) as a writer but I needed educating. She told me that no matter what the big American intellect’s say there are no level’s of morality and that big Gerry Monty and the Mountie’s and Donny Trumpet are all pure numptie daftie’s and that she want’s me to set up a meeting with them to put them all straight. Well, my son’s Eileen has told me to s’top writing in the diary till she educate’s me and polishe’s my talent (?) and my saxon genital (??). So this is the last entry for a wee while. She made me promise to finish it like this. She said that I would be a deleted person to for publishing this in the paper’s on the internet but that she wanted it down so that we wouldnt forget and that the great mind’s would want us to not know and to think that the time of u´s would come soon but that it will never ever come so we better jist get u’sed to it. We are not the moral super’s. Its about a place called Iraq by a journalist called Jo Wilding and Eileen corrected what I wrote. Good night my son’s. What I do from now on I do only for you and for my wee Eileen. Here it i’s my boy’s:
“Screaming women come in, praying, slapping their chests and faces, “Ummi, my mother,” one cries. I hold her until Maki, a consultant and acting director of the clinic, brings me to the bed where a child of about ten is lying with a bullet wound to the head. A smaller child is being treated for a similar injury in the next bed. A US sniper hit them as they left their home to flee Falluja.
The lights go out, the fan stops and in the sudden quiet someone holds up the flame of a cigarette lighter for the doctor to carry on operating by. The electricity to the town has been cut off for days, and when the generator runs out they just have to manage until it comes back on. The children are not going to live.”
About the Author
John McGroarty was born in Glasgow and now lives in Barcelona, where he works as an English teacher. He has been writing short stories for many years. His long short story Rainbow, his novel The Tower and his short fiction collection Everywhere are McStorytellers publications.
You can read John's full profile at McVoices.
You can read John's full profile at McVoices.