It's the Review
of The Year! The year that was Shit! Two thousand and two, that big
saggy arse-flap of a year, a grandad peestained pantsfly of a palindromic
heap of doggie doo… It's gone!
And to celebrate we are pulling our new fluffy moonboots up our legs and
reviewing the things that licked the clit /sucked the arse of the Us in
Two Oh Oh Two. Come play!
Sticking with the same person makes people smug. They
begin to feel invincible. They write books about how to keep fucking the
same person for a bazillion years, and how it is still as skill and as
awesome as the very first time, like Kim Catrall aka Sam from Sex and
the City did.
And they say things to each other like, gosh, people
break up too fast these days. People don't understand that they
have to work at stuff. We always talk our problems through.
For as long as it takes. We will stay up all night.
We will talk for three days. And then they break up
anyway. Life is very long.
All you smug indie tards are sitting back right now,
aren't you, folding your arms in your Christmas jumpers. Your mouths are
doing the smug smile. Your lips are thinner than the meanest little line.
We. Told. You. So. You are saying.
Well and yah booh sucks I'm doing cartwheels in a cheerleader
skirt. Ministry took all the money away, you are saying. The
concerts weren't bigger than Star Wars, hardehar, you are saying. People
threw sandwiches. Casey was flabby. Emerge didn't make
the charts. No one bought The 15th. I don't care. I'm
3) Body Rockers
It starts off with a long queue, and people smoking cigarettes and leaning
against the wall. Under their feet are green and blue lights set into
When you get in Sophie says to you that you're in Pret-A-Manger, only
it's a nightclub, and you laugh. Everyone is very luxuriously
dressed, and you want to stare.
Some people don't like this dressed-upness, and shake in the corners,
and hide on the black vinyl seats, trying to slip their undressed-up bodies
into the fold between the cushions. But what they don't get is this.
These things have been built up like sandcastles - these elaborate hair
rolls, these skirts with a thousand red net petticoats held up with satin
rosebuds, the CoSdress - in order to get the shit knocked out of them.
Bouf, goes the tide, and the electro stilettos come off,
and the eyeliner slides down across the nose, and the rolled hair uncoils
and presses heavy against the neck, and everyone gets trashed
and gorgeous, bathed in hot, shiny sweat.
How long can they keep it up. It's been years. Hennes is on some kind
of Tantric Sting equivalent of being a good shop. Admittedly it had a
wobble at the beginning of oh two - you'd go in and see rails of yucky
tangerine blouses and beige ruffly 'peasant' shit and you'd want to spit
- but by June it was once again standing firm and proud, all punched
leather wristbands at 2.99 and mad wide leather belts at 12.99
- belts that made your phat ass and funky hips look ultra
bodacious; wristbands that Wonder Woman woulda coveted
if she'd been spared the Seventies.
And showing its New Year's Resolution to the world at the beginning of
Oh Three we have a suede skirt with this asymmetric hem
and punched out holes and it is divine beyond description (not to mention
being the Most Expensive Skirt I've Ever Owned, having been seduced into
dissolute conspicuous consumption by some label whore younger boy, but
that won't happen again) and this adorable little brown A-line dress that
showcases the return to the kind of exquisite cut and fit that makes cheap-ass
Hennes the Don of them all, and…
... you know why fashion magazines and fashion people
and newspapers are heralding Top Shop as the cheap trash
empire of loveliness du jour? Because fashion people
magazines newspapers don't know shit.
Heat magazine stars. We pinned up
their day by day guide, where it's like 'more fizzle than sizzle' / 'bring
your thermal undies' / 'scorchio!' etc, forecasting what day you're gonna
receive the hot meat injection and what day you're gonna
be left alone with mister finger, onto the kitchen cork board.
We wrote in little pens if it was right or not. It was never wrong, except
when it was. It predicted scorchio for the day when the hot but temperamental
boy I was trying to get with stomped off into the August King's Cross
night. Freezio for the night that was absolutely the bestest ever.
So instead, Jonathan Cainer's stars.metawire.com
became my daily shrine. If he told me I was gonna get 'material assistance
on an urgent project', like, say, not getting the phone cut off, buying
some food, or soap, I would believe him, and sit back, and wait for the
flakes of cash to float down from the sky.
I had no idea what was going on in the rest of my life, and nobody else
did, and it seemed like Jonathan Cainer was the only one who could talk
of my future with any kind of benevolence or assurance, so I listened
to him, several times a day. Clicking just after midnight, to get an ultra-early
sneak preview of the preview of the future.
Black "Business Suit"
I know a boy who thinks ties are a sign of slavery, and
another who says that wearing a jacket for a second turns you into a 'drone'.
But where I come from it's red or cream Converse are
the sign of slavery, and bow-fronted / ruffle-fronted tops the corporate
daywear, and everybody's legs are shackled by sprayed-on
denim. Slip on a black 'business suit', all fluid tailoring and
chic bits, with piped edges round the lapels and flared arm cuffs with
four buttons and legs that dance around your ankles and and and and high
heels and your hair in plaits - and you're freed
into this land of normality. You're an undercover spy; a plainclothes
police; the worm in the rose; the twist in the knife. Nobody from Financial
Services looking at you funny, no eyes catching on your odd-shaped tea-dress
or moppy ringlets or crooked smile or pink over-knee
socks or whatever; just you, at work, building moneystacks,
getting on with your shit.
Nono, fuck rebranding crack, this is the little bugger
that needs a better public image. Don't you see? It's
nice. It's so nice. It makes the pretty girlies giggle.
8) Not Shoreditch
9) Mother Bar
It's like that thing Jarvis said about having a kebab
when you're drunk, and how that's like a one-night stand.
Like, I'm already down there, in the kerb, now how do I take myself lower?
I'd like to lick that gutter, look, there's a condom
down there, covered in Lancome Cherry Flambee lipgloss,
or is it Melon Juicy Tubes, yes the latter, well, I'd
like to suck that condom, I'd like to pierce my tongue on that syringe.
That's going to Mother. Mother is a bar in Shoreditch
above a club called the 333. I don't want to assume you
know because that would be wank. Shoreditch is a place in London where
idiots live. When I first broke up from the love of my
life, a girl took me there and said, here. Stand by the bar. Men will
buy you drinks. I didn't believe it was true because
who would buy *motions down at self* this a drink? But it was true, to
my eternal shame. Men in low-down jeans with heavy silver belts and caps
from automobile shops in the deep South (of Kent). Boys
in pea coats that study architecture and can't kiss
10) Big Brother
Fuck me, they put someone with taste on the Big Brother selection
panel! A gay, I'd say. A darling gay with glasses, with binoculars, with
a pocket full of calipers. There was Alex (quite clearly
one of the Asexuals. Have you met any of this breed?
They are at first sight wished heterosexual by the ladies,
because their looks are so charming. Alex had smooth brown hair and that
look of one whose lips are half-a-size too large for
their mouths, and so slip around all over the place,
like a slim girl in her boyfriend's jeans. Then when there is no activity
with the ladies, you assume Asexual is into the boys,
so you wait for that. And then, nothing. Not boys, not girls. Not a flicker
of interest. It's not even as though their beauty has
pickled them in apsic. There is nothing to pickle. It's
all aspic, shimmering in the light.) ANYWAY. There was Alex. And though
he had no ass, and a whiny voice, at times his face was
just so pleasing, like his face was making your eyes have a massage, or
get into the bath, or being gone down on. And then also, Spencer.
With a round Caravaggio sulky boy face. In widescreen. Every evening in
a long hot June. That's what television is all about, on long hot evenings
in June, when you have broken up with your boy, and cry without realising,
and sip lemonade on balconies in a cotton dress. Thank you, darling gay
selection guy. The cheque is in the post.
That was the year that was. There's more, but, whatevah - see ya, year.
Please don't let the door hit your ass on the way out. Because I'm too
busy smacking your ass, year, and putting pins in it, and covering it
in candle wax, and hitting the pins and the wax with a broken off floorboard,
and standing on the pins and the floorboard and the wax and your ass,
so, I wouldn't like the door to get in my way or anything. Bye bye year!
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