One minute giving up on life ferreting my way into the bottom of the trash can of life, next minute jumping round a tennis court like an over sexualised L’Oreal advert singing this to myself:
[although if you are going to be wearing a purple lycra play suit, i think it should fit like a pam hogg glove a little more don't you?]
This morning I am particularly excited because the Lesbians are getting married. They came to my wedding and stood up at the wrong moment like they were gonna get married so here we have destiny fulfilling prophecy. I am sitting here feeling a little bit nervous and butterflies for them actually [or is it the management accounts I have to produce by 12pm today as well?]
Now here is a bit of highbrow gossip for you: an ex poet laureate – you know a poet appointed by the government who is supposed to write a poem when something like a coronation or a war or something major happens when they are appointed – apparently went up to some woman at a party and said to her with fierce intensity in an attempt to seduce her “You look like the kind of woman who has a cunt of fire.” When Mrs Kipling told us that yesterday all babes there were a mixture of errrgh and hahaha and jokes about volcano tits and fireman’s hoses quickly followed. I really hope that poet laureate managed something a little better for the Queen than that! The last time I had a cunt of fire I had thrush from using a weirdly lubricated condom. TMI but seriously URGH!
This week is shaping up to be a good one already – a wedding, The Phene Arms in Chelsea is opening tonight – who wants to come? – Valeria is sleeping over and interviewing me about internet dating and I suspect some more lame at names content, the hot lawyer from work is coming to give the girls some training, julia from upstairs is having a party [drinking on the fire escape with views of mayfair anyone?] and crikey it’s almost Saturday again already.
Life is good when it’s good. Don’t worry guys, I will be back to my usual miserable self at any time undoubtedly.
P.S. Just FYI, let’s not forget my nickname in Hamburg is Platinum Pussy BTW. I don’t want you all to think I have a problem fanny.
Paul C accused me of being racist on the grounds he is caramel and Alice I never met. But I love this video they made at home. I wonder if the will know I ripped it? I should probably tell them. Anyway isn’t it wonderful to know that I wasn’t the only one who was making videos over the weekend. You can check more about Wamp-Nation on their blog.
Life has been going a bit better for me than this rat I saw on the Holly Lodge Estate over the weekend. And better than this fish at the 02 Centre on Finchley Road where their aquarium mortality rate is incredibly high I think. Who can forget that big black fish that was floating around in the tank for months “asleep”?
Then I went out to Real Gold with The Cardinal after scoffing a bottle of Champagne that V gave me for Christmas, what was left of a bottle of vodka mixed with tonic on the tube and even more at the party itself.
Louis Enchanté was there standing in a puddle of water and I had a great chat to him later after he came to dry land and he then introduced me to his brother. While we all talked, a guy spent the evening on his hands and knees scooping up the flood with a plastic half pint glass into a bucket. I was thinking we were going to build an ark but it didn’t come to that.
I was very excited to see DJ Assault play. He had called me earlier that day to ask me if I was able to come and hang out cause he had arrived earlier than he thought and he didn’t know wassup. Unfortunately I was standing on The Frenchman’s kitchen chair with a paintbrush in my hand and couldn’t go. A shame. Never the less I got to see the “Porn Star In Training” later that night.
Don’t hate a playa guys, just hate the game. It wasn’t Assault’s best set ever I have to say. He was doing a lot of juggles with doubles which I felt did not work out so great. His set was also his hits one after the other. Rumour has it that Daniel Lee is putting on DJ Assault some time later in the week at The Social which I think is the perfect club for DJ Assault. I would go check out Assault at The Social if the rumour is true!
I prefer sweaty dancing in big gay sweatbox dance clubs. A lot of people were standing there just watching the technique [Serato or equivalent...] which made serious dancing difficult – The Cardinal and I had some real moves going on. Fists ladies. The way to go. I got a lot of compliments from men telling me I am a good dancer. Thanks! Now get out of my way – I have some floor to shine. Guys were also presuming that just because I was dancing to the music that I wanted to be a sub on the dancefloor. I don’t want to get dry humped by some English man with the front of his t-shirt pulled over his face. Remember that Icey Blu song Pump It?
On the way home, I found these on the side of the road. What happened?
The following day I didn’t wake up til it was time to cook dinner. Yes. I stayed at The Frenchman’s. I had dreams all night about sexual liaisons with a very good drinking friend of mine – I’m not sure we actually had sex but we were definitely vibing. If that wasn’t peculiar enough, in the dream the windows of his house were wallpapered with aluminium foil, all the shelves were wonky and there were all this random horrible cheap plastic statues of pigs and carts with some crepe paper. And there were chewed up and mangled feathers all through the draughty cold and wet apartment from this mental cat that was eating an old feathered bathing costume. Freud – that one is all yours.
P.S. In other news, lameatnames.com was down again for bandwidth over usage this month. Valeria and I have to come up with some money making schemes.