Confessions of a rasta on the run

I found this note folded up on a seat in the bus today. It may or may not be true:

Me name is Ronnie. Ronnie di fockin rasta innit.

I’m a big fucker – six foot six in bare feet, plus a big wad of dreads that make me look nearly seven feet tall. I’m a musician but I’m not working much at the moment. Truth is I’m on the dole, I sell a bit of weed to gullible white student boys and I play bongos with a band on the weekends. I’m not actually very good, but there’s always a lot of free booze and young pussy gyrating their way towards my 36 year old body. Not that they know how old I am, or thankfully, who I am. Even with all the rum and skunk I chug through daily I still only just about look thirty. Ja be the way, bruv. I wish I really believed that indestructible optimistic shit, but I’m fairly sure that I’m on my way out.

It all started a few years ago back in London. I was an up and coming MC in the Brixton dance hall scene. Sorry if that sounds poncy, but that’s how the fuckin A n R men called it, and that’s how it was. Thing is I started on a little thing called Crack cocaine. Got really into it. Not quite enough into it to go out robbing old grannies and that, but my hunger for the filthy rock did eventually drive me to take a very dark road. A mate in the industry proppa offered me some TV work. It was good money; I burned it all up that very week in a bottle bong in Queen’s Park. When I came round it gradually sunk in that I was to be known for the end of my days as A Cheap Rasta Cunt. I had sunk to the ultimate MC’ing low – a voice over for cheesestrings.

I though my mates would leave it alone after a couple of months, but wherever I was, whoever I was with, some fucker would always pipe up with the “Cheap Rasta Cunt” jibe, to the cheesstrings music. And everyone in the room would crack up. Even those on their way down would let loose a howl of jaundiced laughter. They were on a come down, but me, I was the lowest fucker ever born. Big up your cheesestrings, you cheap rasta cunt, they sang.

I was so embarrassed I got off the crack. I’ve moved town 6 times in 3 years. Doesn’t matter though – the disses seem to track me down in the end. Maybe there’s a website or somefing ‘where’s Ronnie’. That’s why I just always seem to need one more swig of Planters’, one more bifta, and I know it’s picklin’ my innards. And that’s why I’ve recently decided to adopt a zero tolerance policy on all cheesestring jibes. So – if you’re out a party and you hear a geezer mimicking that bloody tune – watch out ‘cos if I’m there I’m going to fuckin stab some fuckers. Peace.


2 Responses

  1. theunholynag says:

    I heard that the Milky Bar Kid now masturbates on himself in front of Japanese businessmen in return for a smidgeon of PCP.

  2. Sweatmag-Pete says:

    Bennie Bennie Bennie, I think you are telling little porky pies are you not? It seems strange that the “Cheap Rasta Cunt” along to the cheesestrings theme has popped up here, I have known you for a long time and are you sure you didn’t write this “note” during one of your “episodes” where you take on the persona of an ethnic minority individual and order food in their accent. Maybe you forgot you cheeky bastard, or maybe you want to deceive us all, Rum and Skunk my friend indeed. What the other fuckers reading this don’t know is that the Rum & Skunk era of your life was a tumultuous period of change. Feeling a bit old, Sir?

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