Another Night in Hell...
Monday 28 May 2007Why am I here again? One day this will all end. It has to. But until then I just have to keep on going through it all over and over again. Just me, the night. And the neon.
Why am I here again? One day this will all end. It has to. But until then I just have to keep on going through it all over and over again. Just me, the night. And the neon.
| 
A Case Of Mistaken Identity
Monday 28 May 2007I was approached by a policeman on Kentish Town High Street today. My first thought was that he’d found out about that little incident with me and George Michael in the Camden Palace last week. But no, it turned out that he wanted me for an identity parade. Said I looked just like the suspect so I’d be ideal.
Spent the afternoon waiting around in this dingy little room with a load of other hunky young men who were also in the identity parade. None of them looked anything like me. Apart from a general air of hunkiness, that is. They were all years younger than me, though. And they all had blond hair. Then I realised it must have been the streaks that done it – made the policeman choose me, I mean. I had them put in last week by that hairdresser’s opposite the cinema in Camden Town. Must make me look blonder than I’d realised. And younger...
Then, eventually they brought in this little weasely bloke. He was the suspect, apparently. I wouldn’t like to think that anyone would mistake me for him! Not hunky at all. And he had black hair. That struck me as funny, what with everyone else being on the lighter side of the spectrum. Maybe he dyed hair his black so he wouldn’t be spotted in the line-up? Anyway, after a bit, this woman comes in. Turns out he’d snatched her handbag. The silly old bat walked right past the suspect (who anyone with two brain cells to rub together could tell was the villain!) without batting an eyelid. Told the policeman she couldn’t recognise anyone. When she went out the weasel practically whooped with laughter. Then he came round and shook all our hands and thanked us for doing such a great job. I felt like an accessory after the fact. Especially when the policeman came and gave each of us a fiver (except for the weasel who got nothing). Not a bribe, but normal procedure, it appears. I went right round to Woolworth’s after and blew my ill-gotten gains on a packet of L’Oreal wash-in auburn.
I’ve decided the blond streaks aren’t really me after all….
| Down The Blitz with E and N
Friday 25 May 2007Went down The Blitz last night. Big mistake. It was full of girls dressed up like blokes trying to look like girls. I’d arranged to meet Emma in the cocktail bar . She came dressed in a pink tutu that was so big it hardly fitted through the door. Whenever she turned around she cleared the tops of half a dozen tables - broken cocktails glasses and cherries-on-sticks all over the bloody place! Personally I’d have preferred to have gone just about anywhere but the bloody Blitz. Never have seen the attraction, myself - horrible, squalid little place, stinks of greasy food and sweat. Like a transport caff for transvestites. E thinks it’s fabulous - “So decadent, my dahling.” Mind you, E thinks anywhere that doesn’t serve Watney’s Red Barrel is decadent. She’s led a very sheltered life, in my opinion.
Emma’s boyfriend, Norm, came along later. The bouncer wouldn’t let him in. Not surprised, really. Well, he was wearing corduroy trousers and a Marks and Spencer’s cardigan. Not the sort of clientele they want to encourage. Brings down the tone. I mean, he hadn’t even had the simple decency to slap on a bit of blusher and nail varnish! In the end Emma had to go and plead with the bouncer. She can twist a man round her fingers just by fluttering her eyelashes. Especially the eyelashes she had on last night. Two inches long at least. Looked like a couple of squashed tarantulas. The muscles she must be building in her eyelids, fluttering those things!
No sign of Steve or George. Too downmarket for them these days, I suppose.