17 November 2001
When Snotty Anorexic West London Fashion Victims Attack!!!!
My cheeks, the inside, the soft pink wet slack flesh, is TOTALLY FUCKED
UP and smashed and squashed and rough and bleeding. This is because I
CANNOT take ecstacy without my jaw taking on a life of its own and attempting
to devour my entire body, starting with my cheeks and, presumably, working
downwards from there. I guess my cheeks must be pretty darn tough, actually,
cuz, like, I still have my arms.
Last night was wucked though. Against all the odds. Yea, indeed we did
triumph against the attack of the SNOTTY ANOREXIC FASHION VICTIMS from
WEST LONDON. Christ I have never seen so many beautiful people at close
quarters and frankly I never want to again. Well... mainly the girls.
The boys can stay. The girls, like, oh, the girl with the pink basketball
top on and the blonde hair twisted up into a fifties mullet fashmag thing,
with the beautiful lilo lips and the fucking evil annoying way of LOOKING
AT ME - don't fucking LOOK AT ME, ok? - she can go. The girl - woman,
really, gotta be, 30s - Japanese, who wears amazing clothes and cycles
down Brick Lane on a bike covered in flowers, who came into our swop shop
when we were running it and gave us 'free' tickets to her fashion show
that when we turned up actually turned out to cost £10? She can fuck off.
The girl in the lacy dress who high-heeled over to us when we were in
the irony-kiddy disco room and sat down while Nancy Sinatra's 'These Boots
Were Made For Walking' and pouted 'I can't walk in *these* boots'? She
can - actually, she can stay, because she talked to us. And because, by
the time she talked to us, we were well into a totally fucked state of,
no, not benevolence, tolerance. Conditional tolerance. Dependent on the
fact of these people fucking off so that we could make a grab'n'go stop
on their drinks.
O don't get me wrong, I don't normally steal drinks. Perhaps you do not
understand - which is fair enough, seeing as I haven't really described
it yet - the MAGNITUDE of the HORROR of these UTTERLY RICH MOTHERFUCKERS
at this club last night. I mean, I thought, like, that all the rich people
had DIED. Hey, this time last year, even I was a rich motherfucker. This
time two years ago, I was just about to get jetted off to Silicon Valley
to write while being put up in the most DE LUXE hotel in the whole of
downtown San Francisco. And now? Now I'm a fucking headset jockey! My
rate has dropped from thirty pounds an hour to fifty-five pounds A DAY!
So, um, if *I'm* suffering the least this bloody world can do is suffer
with me, ya know what I'm sayin'? So to discover that, not only are there
people still in existence in November 2001 that can drink champagne from
the bottle with a straw - and I ain't talkin' no gay little model-sized
bottle of champagne, I'm talking a 75cl full-on bottle - AND that these
people are staggering beautiful, well, let's just say, it was either hacking
at my wrists with the buckle of my belt, or swallowing one of the two
sweet little Mitsubishis I had handily sneaked in in the cup of my bra.
And I don't wanna die. At least, not in a way that will leave unattractive
and disfiguring scars. My hand was scurrying around in my brassiere quicker'n
you could say 'and one £17 bottle of red wine to wash it down with please,
'I had a beautiful experience on ecstacy.'
(to be continued - sorry, I've got to go to Amsterdam! love amp xxxx)
previous : : : about
: : : next