There is no other current news in my life, I am simply existing…I am a weed blowing gently in the sweet Burnley wind. Or a spider waiting patiently in its web till some gigantic bastard comes along and Hoovers me up. Enough with the metaphors anyway, you people don’t deserve the Lukat’s urban poetry. You bunch of fucking nobodies. I have pretty much retired from being a public nuisance and I tend to just sit about reading romance novels and sucking on a werthers original while keeping a crafty eye on the suspicious looking youths outside kicking their ball around. I’m well on the road to becoming a middle aged dad type by the age of 23. Next on the agenda are some stonewash jeans, big white trainers from Matalan and a status quo world tour 2002 t-shirt. I’m a has been, I’m ancient; I listen to classic rock and make sure I eat healthy. I clean up the poo of infants. (Just to clarify that’s not a hobby, I am a father). I get tired before midnight and insist on having at least 10 hours sleep a day. The Lukat as you know him is dead…DEAD AND GONE. Well until the next time I go out probably or get myself a Thai bride with my dole money.
So anyway since nothing is happening in the present or future I suppose that means I’m just going to have to settle with the past and dwell on old terrible memories that I’d rather forget but for the sake of entertainment value I have to bring them up every so often so people can laugh at my expense. See that’s my job, I make people feel better by simply being me, you can all just think ‘well I’m a bit of a nob head…but at least I aint as bad as Joey Luka.’ I’m Prince Bell end…I'm the duke of dick heads…I’m the chairman of the board of wankers…Jesus of the pricks. No one shall challenge my crown. Fear me. Fear my shame.
The shame I speak of can not be achieved simply through the powers of the human mind and body. The shame I speak of is brought about by Satan himself, conjuring such acts of ridicule and humiliation that even he can not stomach them and turns away in pity. He tempts me just like the biblical snake offering me a nice juicy apple but the apple has matured. The apple has been kindly turned in to cider by the good people of strongbow. But the cider is only the beginning of the dance of death, the devil has only plied me with his starter, you can only achieve so much embarrassment off the powers of cider. You might chase around some fat birds, you might get a bit of piss on your blue suede shoes and you may even have fisticuffs with the locals. Yet these are all ordinary shames, these are household shames, they are quickly forgotten and dismissed. For a more long lasting pain and suffering you must sacrifice your soul to the sinister powers of vodka. Not just any vodka…not the top of the range vodka with their distillation and clean taste. Oh no you must go deep down, darker than you’ve ever been. You go for the cheapest bottle; it will usually have some obscure Russian name on the label and a proud crest which hints that it was formed from the might of imperial heritage and dynasty rather than in a factory which also makes urinal cakes. The taste alone makes you want to vomit in to your hands. The scent of household cleaning products and suffering. Take it down mi’ lad…take it all down and you shall become superhuman...take down your molasses. You shall feel no pain. You shall feel no embarrassment as you jangle your penis about on the dance floor, women looking on disgusted. That’s what you live for. Feel no pain as you drop a lit cigarette down your boxers, creating a beautiful inferno of the pubic forest; watch your phallus burn purple before your very eyes. This is the magic of alcohol, now dance with me.
Oh how we danced. We toast the wonders of alcohol, in its ability to turn a well educated man in to a primal savage, strutting about the room like a buzzard, flapping his wings and stomping his Cuban heels on the ground. Watch him strut, with his tight pants, his fly undone hassling women on the dance floor before being escorted away by the bouncers, stale alcohol dripping from his chin. His posture so strong, so powerful. Like a Greek statue which has been poorly remade by Ikea and doused in strongbow. The women glance over and are mesmerised by his animal lust. He shouts in their beautiful faces, giving them the sex eyes, spilling a pint all over his crotch and falling on his arse. Half man…half wolf. HOWLLLLLLLL. He is the Lukat, hear him roar.
So over the years I suppose I’ve created a kind of reputation as one of the worst drunks to be let loose on the general public. There are so many horrific memories that should probably have left me dead or on Jezza Kyle but alas here I am with all my natural limbs.
Like when I was hanging out of a 4th floor window with my bare anus out inscribed with the words’ FUCK OFF’ in permanent marker. Some poor foreign students below begging me not to jump and rushing up to the flat only to find that I was just having a flipping good time. The compassion of strangers always warms my heart, someone left a dirty mattress underneath my window a few days later. God bless their souls. Don’t they know suicide is for pussies, I’d much rather go out fighting a pack of wolves or if you can’t get wolves…then erm…Alsatians?
Then there were my infamous fights…not with humans but with inanimate objects. Like the old grandfather clock I saw on a night out and started punching in the face for no apparent reason. Or my drunken brawl with the cash machine, not sure what the dispute was based on. He must have called my woman a tart. Then there was my losing battle with the lamppost which decided to break my hand and send me packing, never fight objects associated with the council.
There was the mighty dance off back in 07. I stroll in to the club out of my mind on vodkat and Prozac and spy a young upstart trying to ply his trade, busting a move on the dance floor , trying his hardest to impress but little did he know that he was about come up against the force of the Lukat. On I come to interrupt him performing with the classic knee switch routine and intense finger wagging, my eyes full of conviction. The people they stand round and watch in awe at the spectacle. His well choreographed and practiced dance moves are no match for the Lukat’s jungle fever. The battle seems to last an eternity, the boy giving it everything he had and the man…the Lukat effortlessly pounding him with his unique brand of contemporary wankered dance. I finish him off by performing a forward roll whilst my pants fall down simultaneously exposing my anus. My change, phone and keys spilling all over the floor as I scramble around squinty eyed…the people...they cheer and hail me the winner. The kid comes up to me with tears in his eyes and pleads ‘WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME…YOU’RE TAKING THE PISS’ then leaves the club a defeated man. The Lukat stands tall, lord of the dance.
There was love too…and passion. Like when I was sexually assaulted in the walkabout by two obese ladies. They tore off my pants, they chewed my belt (literally), they almost got my boxers off but I managed to escape to the toilet, tale between legs, fearing for my life as they prowled round licking their lips. Not to mention my experimentations with public intercourse resulting in a horrific event a few years back which I shant go in to for legal reasons. People’s lives were irreparably damaged.
Who could forget New Years Eve of 2007 when I got arrested for fighting with a bald man whilst simultaneously having a plastic pirate’s sword shoved down my pants? It was ye’ olde style combat, if Johnny Depp had done it people would have been applauding but oh no, just because it’s the Lukat pounding on some chumps bald bonce it’s seen as a crime. Luckily I was released shortly after and proceeded to go and lose all my clothes in a gothic nightclub except for a tie. I like to keep things formal.
Sure I’ve done a lot of shit. I’ve eaten currency to spite a man. I’ve poured large amounts of alcohol down my pants. I’ve made people drink fruit punch, eat digestives and take photographs of my bare anus at 3am (after sending them home to get their camera of course). I’ve been a pioneer of frontal nudity in nightclubs. I’ve entered a mans flat to steal his alcohol, leave obscene messages on his fridge using alphabet magnets and leave my road works there. I’ve engaged the general public in hand to hand combat and been groped by a tramp whilst wearing Lycra hot pants and routing for change. (It was right there on the floor, next to my dignity). All these things are terrible but how can we use them to help the future generations? Well we can see the warning signs. Here to help you via photographic form I have put together a guide to the telltale signs that maybe there’s about to be a serious crime going down. Someone’s self respect is about to be raped and murdered out on these streets. I for one won’t idly stand by and watch it happen.
The telltale signs are all here. The crazed look in my eyes, which appear to be looking in different directions. The prefuse sweating, the shirt collar torn open in fury. The hair straggled across my forehead like a very cheap wig. My disgusting pink colouring and dissapearing chin all pointing towards the conclusion that one perhaps has had too many shandeys. Be warned.
A classic case here, first note the jumper tied around the shoulders in upper class polo fashion. The elongated neck which is often a symptom of vodka rage. Also note the shit eating grin and double chin emerging. The most condeming signal is acceptance of letting a fat idiot touch me, that would be the definite sign that one is intoxicated. Scoring a 3.5 on the shandey charts.
Many sympto
ms here. The cold dead eyes of a killer. The whale painted on the face combined with comedy monobrow. The primark shorts and muscle vest all complimenting the swigging of the 3 litre plastic bottle of taurus. For those unfamiliar with taurus it is the aldi brand cider. Brewed to perfection as always.
Very high score on the shandey meter here. There are the giveaways in attire stemming from the tied around blouse effect of the t-shirt, exposing the powerful chest. The main issues here are physical, the face has lost nearly all of it's shape with the hairline parting in a Hugh Grant on crack effect. Rendering the victim completely obscene to all females and terrifying to members of the same sex/species.
All dignity has been lost here, the bondage cap and hot pants combined with the act of routing for spare change in said hot pants has already done severe damage. Notice the big upper body and tiny legs giving a surreal edge to the image, the levels of shame have almost warped all sense of reality creating a new shamed based 4th dimension. There is no going back.
Lukat's final thought
So you see my friends, heed my words of advice and through my shame you can be set free. As i try to salvage the last scraps of dignity and make a new life, do not judge my shortcomings but use them as the moral guidance to enhance your own lives. It is not enviable to go through life never making mistakes, the mistakes we build upon and react to, we become the strong people we are today. So the next time you wake up next to a big fat lass and feel sorrow, do not dwell on this, you get rid of her as fast as possible and you say 'yes...i fucked up...but it will make me a better person. I hope to god i didn't give her my fucking number'. Go get em' sport.
No comments:
Post a Comment