Flyboy, Nowgirl, Flatmate and Peaches


Tuesday 02 April 2002

Remember that 'I love my job' bullstuffz? You can shove that up your crack. That is way old now. My job sucks butt, and I have stopped trying: cruising in an hour late, sneaking out for fagz every five minutes, ostentatiously cleaning my fingernails with paperclips, spending every single lunchhour at Rough Trade blasting my ears with deafening synthpop, propping matchsticks between my upper and lower lids to prevent me cutting my eyes at all tha h8rz who ask me to scan things and resize things and send out fucking logos to everyone and his dog. I'm a COPYWRITER, you cuntz, not a frickin' scan monkey slash insipid secretary! Gah!

Obviously the only response to such continual infuriating humiliation is to get fucked off one's box and humiliate oneself some more, maybe even mess up one's life a bit, preferably in front of the assembled hipster hordes of London Village. How about climbing onstage at a gig, wresting a wooden hula-hoop from the slender fingers of one half of Digital Hardcore's new signing Cobra Killers, and hula-hooping - badly - next to Peaches, before being forced to the floor and aggressively mock-raped by a big-titted girl in a stripy t-shirt? Yeah, that's a start.

We had blagged our way into Peaches courtesy of an interview with Solex. There was a gaggle of us: the flyboy mentioned in the Pimpdaddy thing; a girl I will refrain from calling Spitroastin' Soph because I am nice and will instead refer to as The Girl From Now (even though she's not in the band Now anymore); and Nowgirl's flatmate, tall, dark-haired, slant-eyed, of whom more later, no doubt. Flyboy had groped my tit in greeting which had pissed me off enormously. Even had I still fancied him this would have been de trop.

We were boozed up on expensive drunk booze-piss courtesy of Bill Gates (via Nowgirl's X-box funded bank account) blackmailed from her on the grounds that if she did not put out boozewise, we would spill the sordid details of her flyboy-related bathroom shenanigans to the general East London massive. We were excited. Pills had been swallowed. Adrenalin was rising. The sounds of Kylie's la-la-la-la-whopperhit filled the air: the lights dimmed, and it all went apeshit.

There were two mean-eyed brunette trendies by the front of the stage, and they clearly did not deserve to be there, for though Peaches had strided on like the mo'fuckin' DIVA that she is they were not going mad for her and reaching out and touching her fishnetted leg like what we were. Spotting my chance, I separated from boyfriend and dived to the front of the stage, insinuating myself between the two smacked-arse-faced bitches. It worked. I turned around and motioned for whoever was behind me - a stripy-topped dark-haired girl - to squeeze in next to me, and we started dancing and showing those mean-eyed trendies how to really have fun.

The pill and the booze were starting to churn around in my head and make my skin feel all lovey, and it was truly great to have made a new friend. I turned around again and saw my boyfriend flirtying it up something chronic with Nowgirl's flatmate, but was too trapped to do anything about it, and besides, I am wild and free and unaffected by jealousy, and also besides, my new friend was distracting me.

I waved my wine-glass in the air and she clapped her hands over her head and we wolf-whistled at Taylor Savvy and bawled Peaches' name and touched Peaches' legs and generally went wukkid bonkers. It wuz grand.

Let's go onstage, she goes.
I'm like, I haven't even finished my wine.


I never wanted to be a performer (apart from, oh, the failed band and um, the summer of the bellydancing residency at Kabaret) but suddenly there I am with Peaches; 2x Japanese Girls: a million screaming hordes - oh, and a hula hoop.

I can hula-hoop YEAH - a misspent youth spent sucking back wine and hula-ing to the Beastie Boy's Check Yer Head made sure of that, hooker, who says I don't know how to use my time productively - but this hula hoop was wooden and HEAVY and it kept droppin' to the floor, droppin' to the floor, and I wanted so bad not to be there, but there was no way I could clamber down cuz that just wouldn't be stylin, would it?

And the girl who'd pushed me onstage - literally, plump strong palms in the small of my back - was nowhere to be seen.

And then, like glorious heavenly rain, the stage was invaded and people were around me and everyone was dancin' and kissin' and stagedivin' and makin' out. A boy pulled down his trousers to reveal his pierced cock, and swung it for the delectation (or otherwise) of the viewers, before teabagging an unsuspecting girl in the front row. Boyfriend was there and we frugged for a second but doing fake sex things with your long-term partner in front of all your mates seems to me to be hideously exhibitionistic in a way that doing fake sex things with someone you've never seen before and never will again somehow doesn't. Nowgirl was snogging with Flyboy in the front row and then a sweet little indie boy with glasses and mathrock buttonedup red shirt went crazy and started trying to pull Nowgirl's trousers and pants down, and she was grabbing them stopping them going further down and snogging snogging and then I danced away from my boyfriend and then my new friend was on me molesting me and Peaches swigged wine from the bottle and surveyed with cold glittering eyes the debauchery she had created.

And then it was all over and I was getting up and all of my buttons were undone and b/f was towering above me like a furious giant. Then it was later and there was talking to Peaches and she remembered me from some email interview I'd done with her which was nice and then there was some crazy club in London Bridge which played amazing synthpop, and then there was wandering the cold cold streets fighting with b/f because of the girl - like it had mattered or something - and then, then, then, there was glorious bed.

Sunday morning I pulled my green chiffon bow-fronted top from the dirty-washing basket and marvelled. It was covered with obscure red stains, dirty smudges, tiny rips on the back from where I had been lying onstage and stuff had dug into me. And then I looked at my arms and they were covered in filth and dirt, and I was bruised on my arm and back and thigh and ass, like I had been beaten up.

I'm like, God, you're like a Victorian grandfather, what have I ever done.
And he goes, you broke it AMP, I can't take any more.


And then we're back in bed.


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