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
*spit* 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, barman'.

'I had a beautiful experience on ecstacy.
'

(to be continued - sorry, I've got to go to Amsterdam! love amp xxxx)

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