Saturday 23 February 2002

A slow start to the year, if truth be told, and an ugly one too. The post-natal months of the nu annum were a frightening place, full of stolen computers and paranoia. Where is my big green cyberculture book? Where is the pipe that looks like a bolt and is useful for Saturday morning stoned Buffy-watching when fingers are too wibbly for joints? What is the thief doing with my pipe and my cyberculture book and my computer and my phone: this stoned stalking hacker, what does he want from me? Such were our thoughts here at AMP Centrale as 2002 peeped back at us like Neitzsche's abyss.

December closed in a flurry of Gonzales-obsession and occasional powders, which was fun, and unemployment, which was not, and infrequent headset jockeying, which made me lie on my back and cry till tears filled up my eardrums, the effect of which was not unlike listening to a bad Aphex Twin track while in a floatation tank, without even the positive side-effect of rendering my ears unsuitable for work the next day. January hove into view like the fifty-something lady who works in every office, huffing and chortling, staff scuttling in her wake. And stomachs did churn. And heads did loll into the toilet. Fun was not had. Yes, gastric flu swept the country, and came to lodge in the bowels of AMP. Meanwhile deadlines loomed and swooped like toothy bats intent on chowing down on the jugular that strained tense against the flesh of my neck, while in the background, full-time wageslavery cackled and pointed at the contract it held in its hands, demanding in cold tones that I sign in my own blood.

But no blood was to be had, not in January, no: so stressed was I, that my monthly flux simply up and left. You might think, girls, as did I, that the flower that blooms between your thighs is a beastly annoyance, best annihilated. Think on. Imagine, as I did throughout that foul month, that such contemplation has somehow caused your heavenly girlishness to undergo premature menopause. Eggs fried and dried and falling to the floor. Hormones withering like autumn leaves. Bingo wings forming at frightening speed on your once-striated triceps. Brr! Now thank the Lord for your stained panties!

February arrived like a sigh of relief: blood flowed once more; deadlines loosed their death-grip on my wrists and neck; work-alliegances were formed through blessed alcohol and deadpan insults; PR companies donated records and guestlist tix to the cause of AMP; and the deadly internet message board addiction shrugged its shoulders and, after a year of red-hot hate and lovin', set me free, with a kiss on the brow and a pat on the bum.

I can see March from here and it looks like Travis, not the band, but the nu Calvin Klein model with the muscular man-tits and frightening bulge, who will be appearing at Selfridges on the 2nd and selling pants, though I doubt these will be his warm, worn ones, much to the chagrin of the adorable gaylords I intend on attending the event with. An auspicious start to the Spring, I hope you'll agree: if not, why are you perusing these sentences? You are not of my kind. Run along!

As for now, mid-February, well. The booty has gone to seed: death-mash cycle pellmell rides to and from work every day are no match for Skinny Mike's legendary Step classes; while the regular afternoon office pick-me-up of full-fat latte, a Marlboro Light and a white chunky Kit-Kat take their toll on the bags under the eyes and on the thighs, but pah! We care not for such things here in AMPland: not when the list for the Wauvenfold gig contains our nomenclature, and the little friends never-removed from my purse since the inauspicious Princess Superstar gig two weeks ago are also calling our names, and it has been promised that we and others are to drink tequila and kick ass, for it is someone-or-other's birthday, and it looks like we're almost out of ass, and, most importantly, when there is Touche Eclat and body-shaping tights and people saying nice things about our writing: no, we care not a jot.

Fuck the squandered booty: let's shake the still-pert titties. With January gone, and Feburary receding like an old boyfriend's hairline, it's time to party. We'll drag 2002 kicking and screaming into the fun zone if it kills it. Wanna come? I bet you do. Call me!

(p.s. unless you are a librarian. in which case - mail me. please?)

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