Friday 22 June 2007
boop-a-doop-boy writes...
The woman in the flat upstairs kept me awake all last night with her tap-dancing. Must have been half past five before she finally gave up. I didn’t get in until about two o’clock myself and then I just lay in bed with the pillow wrapped around my head trying to keep all her row out. She shouldn’t be dancing at her age, anyway. Not with the varicose veins she’s got!
Went with Emma up to The Danzotek last night – a big, swanky nightclub up in the middle of nowhere somewhere beyond Archway. Her and Norm’s back together again, it seems. Though he didn’t come up to The Danzotek, I noticed! Something funny going on there if you ask me.
Anyway, I’m shattered. I haven’t had the time to write half of what I’d wanted to. I mean, all that business with Kevin, for a start. Oh, it’s just going to have to wait. I’ve got to be up early tomorrow. Doing an interview with Buster Bloodvessel for
Jackie. Don’t know what I’m going to talk about, really. I mean, what does anyone want to know about Buster Bloodvessel anyway? His sex life, I suppose. Who, where, when, how long for and how much Golden Syrup was involved. Don’t think I’ll get that past the editor of Jackie though, somehow. I’ll probably end up asking him about his favourite school dinners. That’s always a good standby for Jackie…
Thursday 21 June 2007
boop-a-doop-boy writes...
It turns out that Kevin – you remember, the butcher’s boy from Plaistow – has a very dark secret! Emma found out all about him from Jimbo – you remember, her boyfriend that I was telling you about who was well equipped in everything but intelligence. Jimbo, it turns out, happened to be down Hammersmith way a while back. Oh, did I mention that Jimbo is a male stripper? That was what Emma’s big news was but I practically forgot all about it after she told me about Kevin. So anyway, it turns out that he, Jimbo I mean, knew him, Kevin I mean, as he, Jimbo, had seen him, Kevin, one night when he, Jimbo, was giving of his best.
“Well, why didn’t you say?” I said, “I mean, why didn’t you tell me he was a stripper – by which I meant Kevin, not Jimbo – before I invited him back for coffee?”
I was thinking that if I’d known that I could have got him to do a quick turn in the privacy of my own flat but Emma, poor girl, assumed it was my Puritanical streak coming out and that I disapproved of such things.
As if!
Anyway, she hummed and she hawed and she wouldn’t say exactly what she knew about Kevin, just to kid me along like. And then finally she comes out with it! Well, I tell you, I knew he was no butcher’s boy right from the start, but when Emma told me what he really does – well, you could have knocked me down with a bloomin’ feather!
Oh bloomin’ heck. There’s someone on the phone. Got to go….
Wednesday 20 June 2007
boop-a-doop-boy writes...
He’s got this thing about Simon Le Bon. No, really! That’s all he ever goes on about. Drives me up the wall. Good job it was the Black Cap we went to. The place was crowded as usual and the music was so loud that I couldn’t hear him droning on about bleedin’ Simon Le Bleedin’ Bon all the time.
Come closing time I asked him how he was getting back to Plaistow. he was a bit vague on the subject. I said, you’ll have to rush if you want to get the tube. You’ll miss your connections if you’re not careful. Then I realised I didn’t know if Plaistow was North of the river or South. I asked him but he was a bit vague on that too. “I’ll be all right,” he says, “I like long walks.”
“So what would you recommend,” says I, “Best End or Shank?”
“What?” says he.
“Oh, nothing,” I says, “I was just wondering whether you knew my best friend, Frank?” - and I’m thinking to myself, some butcher’s boy he’d make. I don’t think he’d know his brisket from his chump chops.
Anyway, I came home and he heads off down Primrose Hill way. I’m not sure if that goes to Plaistow myself. I must remember to have a look in the A to Z. Emma called on the phone just now. Said she fancied meeting up in town somewhere. Apparently she’s fallen out with her new boyfriend. I may go just to get the dirt.
Next Morning…
It’s late and I’ve just got back. Well, what a night that was! It turns out there’s more to that butcher’s boy from Plaistow than you’d ever guess! Anyway, the room’s starting to spin around so I’m turning in now. I’ll jot down all the sordid details later….
Monday 18 June 2007
boop-a-doop-boy writes...
I’m feeling rough today. I knew I should never have gone down the Purple Pussycat but Emma was insistent. She’s got a new boyfriend. But she hasn’t told her old boyfriend. Says she likes to live dangerously. The waitresses in the Purple Pussycat are a scream. They all have to wear tight purple bathing suits, purple fishnet tights, purple high-heel shoes and purple cat-ears. Real classy place, if you know what I mean. The waitress serving our table must have been sixty if she was a day. She looked like my Aunty Bertha. When she smiled you could see her top set of dentures slipping down. Once, she smiled so broadly at Emma’s boyfriend that it was touch and go as to whether her dentures would fall into our cocktails.
I had a long slow screw up against the wall. That’s a cocktail. I don’t know what’s in it but it tasted like petrol. I only chose of it because of the name. Emma’s boyfriend handed me the drinks list and said “What would you like?” So naturally, I said “A long slow….” well, you get my drift. I couldn’t resist, really. As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered. Emma’s boyfriend isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. The double entendre flowed past him like custard off a duck’s back. He just grunted and said, “OK.”
I don’t know what Emma sees in him. No, that’s not true. I know exactly what she sees in him. He has an exceptionally large todger. I know I shouldn’t say so but it happens to be true. It’s a quality which is shared by all of Emma’s boyfriends. She seems to live life in a constant quest for bigger and better.
His name, by the way is Jim. I call him James. I don’t think he likes to be called James but see if I care! To be honest, I don’t think he likes me at all. The feeling is mutual. He’s got a nice stomach, though - like a bag of walnuts. I know this for a fact as he insisted on showing it to the waitress. This was a dangerous ploy given her advanced years. She staggered back visibly and nearly fell off her stilettos.
Later on, we went to some grimy little club down in Soho. I bought a half bottle of rum in a shop before we went in and spent the evening lacing a glass of Coca Cola that cost me a couple of quid at the bar. Disgraceful! They even have the cheek to have a sign over the bar saying patrons must not drink their own beverages. Some hopes at those prices!
After a bit I lost sight of Emma and Jim. The barman said he’d seen them go out the back way. There’s a little courtyard out there apparently. Well, I have a pretty good idea why people go out there and it’s not to gaze at the stars! I thought about following them but, on mature consideration, decided against it.
Anyway, it must have been about two o’clock or so when I left. I was sick in the gutter and had to be taken home by a butcher’s boy from Plaistow. God knows how I met him. His name’s Kevin. I vaguely remember telling him over coffee and muesli that I’d see him tonight down the Black Cap in Camden Town. Some hopes! An evening in the Black Cap with a butcher’s boy from Plaistow is not my idea of a good night out, that’s for sure.
Wednesday 13 June 2007
boop-a-doop-boy writes...
Emma came round today. We went round Selfridges looking for makeup. She bought hair gel with glitter dust in and I bought some black nail varnish. When we were passing through the gent’s underwear section, who should we see but that that Peter Powell! You know, the DJ. He’s much smaller in real life than he sounds on the wireless. I tried to get a look at what he was buying but he caught my eye and then moved over to the socks department. Emma says she thinks he looks like a boxer-shorts sort of guy. But I reckon he goes for Y-Fronts. He looks as though he’d benefit from the extra support, if you know what I mean.
This afternoon we went down to The Barbican - the arts centre they opened down the East End somewhere. Proper dump if you ask me. Worse than that place on the South Bank where they have that National Theatre; that was where they did that play,
The Romans In Britain - you know, the one that there was that court case about after Mary Whitehouse moaned about it. I wish I’d gone to see it! Mrs Whitehouse reckons one of the actors got his wotsit out and wiggled it at the audience! But the actor claims it was just his thumb. How can you mistake a thumb for a willy, that’s what I’d like to know? Emma says she’s had some boyfriends that you could make that mistake with! I laughed. I’m not really sure I understand what she means though….
Monday 04 June 2007
boop-a-doop-boy writes...
That Toyah Wilcox is a girl and a half, isn’t she! I did an interview with her today for my column in ‘London After Dark’ magazine. The one thing you can rely upon with Toyah is that she’ll always give you just what you want - when it comes to a story, I mean. I’d hardly had time to take the weight off my feet and get myself on the outside of a cup of Lapsang Souchong before she starts telling me all about these mystical powers she has. Claims she can make things float around the room with the power of her mind alone.
“Like that Uri Geller?” I say.
“Yes,” she says, “Only without the forks.”
According to Toyah, she’s always had these powers. She first noticed it when she was a little girl. Her knickers used to float around her bedroom, apparently, like as though they had a will of their own.
“If you saw the powers I have,” she says, “It would make cold chills run up and down your spine.”
So I says, “Toyah, love, how about you making something of mine float around the room now, then?”
So she tells me to take off my jumper. So I did. But she couldn’t get it to float. So she tells me to take off my tie. So I did. But she couldn’t get it to float. So she tells me to take off a few other things. And, well, you know me, anything for a laugh! So I took them off. But she couldn’t get them to float. I tell you what, though - I didn’t half feel cold chills running up and down my spine - and a few other places too.
Oh, the stories I could tell if I was ever to write my autobiography! They’d have a few pop stars reaching for their lawyers, I can tell you. But Toyah’s got nothing to worry about - her secrets are safe with me. For the time being. Not so sure about later on in life though, when I’m old and vicious and desperate for the dosh. I’ll probably spill a few beans then, I should imagine.
The beans I could spill on George Michael alone would make your hair stand on end. Which reminds me - I once spilled some beans on Buster Bloodvessel as a matter of fact: a whole bloody vat of beans - none of your rubbish neither, they were properly kosher Heinz baked beans in tomato sauce. Buster stuck his head in a saucepan and then I emptied the beans all over him. Well, it wasn’t just me, to be ruthlessly honest. The photographer was doing most of it, I was just standing around in the background making polite conversation and trying to elevate the tone. Which, given the circumstances, was something of a challenge. It was for a shot for the cover of Flexipop! which is another magazine for which I write. Dreadful rag, really. I’m trying to work my way up the publishing biz gradually. The Sunday Times Colour Supplement is what I have my eye on. I mean, ask yourself - when was the last time the Sunday Times had a picture of Buster Bloodvessel covered in baked beans?
I think I’ll go the Camden Palace tonight. You know, that big new night club Steve Strange opened recently? Well, I say ‘new’ - in fact, it’s really just an old bingo hall with bouncers out the front. The Spandau lads seem to hang around a lot down there these days. And David Jaymes from Modern Romance. Nice lad, that David. I’ve always liked him, anyway. Not a natural blond though, if you want my opinion….
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