I am just going to continue being weird and mean on purpose
Life continues to be. I am genuinely concerned about the amount of fluid in my not-titties after comparing with the photos from just after surgery, and will therefore call the number I was given on Monday, when it is less inconvenient for all involved, and leave a message demanding to know how much is the right amount of. "fluid". Which, in realistic terms, is actually "internal bleeding" but they're very euphemistic about it in case ... people get upset, I guess. Anyway. I am bleeding into my own body and it's taking a long-ass time to reabsorb it and it's stretching out my titties and I don't approve.
Obviously what you should do when you are concerned about your internal bleeding is go to a club night in a museum and dance until gone midnight while rather drunker than you intended to be, so that's what I did.
ruthi and i went for pre-drinks at the barbican centre. i had prosecco and befouled the floor with glitter and rose petals.
after eavesdropping on a conversation between the former owner of fabric (RIP) about the appointment of the new London nightlife czar, Amy Lamé (YAY) from which i determined that the assembled heads of London's premier nightclubs are entirely in favour of HER (used to be mayor of camden, runs a club night i have attended, was the host of a panel show i loved as a teenager, is a ferocious and determined american lesbian who could kill a man by staring at him; i am also VERY IN FAVOUR OF HER) but concerned that she won't have much in the way of power and that the mayor's office can't actually grant her any because it's a matter between police and councils - there's yer fucking insight, the head of fabric was discussing which of them should run to be on a local council - i found the 1920s disco and had a gin martini. and then a peach bellini. and then i found maud and fred, and maud found tom carradine (here), we had a cockney knees-up in the victorian gallery, and i had two more peach bellinis, one of which went into my mouth at speeds previously only seen during the olympic 100 metres final.
and then i danced for three hours, largely in a boingy, prancy way, and consumed two "disco apocalypses" and two more proseccos, under this banner. i also befriended, with varying degrees of success, a teacher, a woman with light-up tits, a girl with multi-coloured hair who gave me her hairdresser's phone number, a gay couple in their sixties/seventies - one of whom was dressed from head to toe in Vivian Westwood and informed me cheerfully it was "all on my husband's money" - a guru/holy man in a conga line with light-up shoes (baba was giving blessings at diwali also and has been seen in soho, he is fantastic but very smelly), mr carradine (with whom maud and i have many photographs), another smelly man who was an excellent dancer and introduced me to his massive coterie of women as "the life of the party" and then informed me later that He Was Definitely Straight Okay (why is that my problem) and a morris dancer, because there was a morris demonstration on the dance floor, of the night club, in the museum (video: this is all i have ever wanted from life, i can die happy).
my bag of glitter having sprung a leak, i decided that i would just dance with it in my hand and let it spiral around while i was dancing. occasionally i patted it.
except there was a bit where i got a bit enthusiastic due to the prosecco and the bellinis and may have clapped hands violently over my head at the key change of a song
making the bag BURST
and showering the entire dancefloor but mainly me
with glitter
and attracting excited (female) people from every direction.
GUYS I AM GOING TO DO THIS EVERYWHERE I FUCKING GO.
me and fred post-glittering: i will never, ever, ever be free of gold glitter again for the rest of my life it is absolutely fucking everywhere.
Maud has a photo of me holding aloft a giant cardboard bottle of Poppers while guzzling cocktails with the other hand, but her instragram account is locked and i therefore cannot link you to it. nevertheless: it is an iconic portrait.
Today I struggled through my day's writing (TEETH. BEING PULLED. not helped by STILL BEING DRUNK when i started), discovered that my father has mysteriously sent me money for my birthday this year, as my grandmother also did, despite her not having done so since about 1999. i don't know what's gotten into them all?! why is this happen. this is a fucking weird year. also discovered that someone got SHOT up in muswell hill, WHERE THE POSH LIVE, which comes less than a month after dude got stabbed down in wood green. (unlike the stabbing victim, shooting victim is not dead and looks unlikely to die, which is nice...r? i guess?)
SO YEAH
morris dancing in a night club in a museum, my father isn't calling me names for once, i've got internal bleeding, people are shooting each other, and tonight i'm going to Feeling Goomy for the Pulp special with m'pal Charlie and going to dance some more. Hopefully drink a bit less as debauchery is an expensive hobby.
On the other hand: internal bleeding!
Obviously what you should do when you are concerned about your internal bleeding is go to a club night in a museum and dance until gone midnight while rather drunker than you intended to be, so that's what I did.
ruthi and i went for pre-drinks at the barbican centre. i had prosecco and befouled the floor with glitter and rose petals.
after eavesdropping on a conversation between the former owner of fabric (RIP) about the appointment of the new London nightlife czar, Amy Lamé (YAY) from which i determined that the assembled heads of London's premier nightclubs are entirely in favour of HER (used to be mayor of camden, runs a club night i have attended, was the host of a panel show i loved as a teenager, is a ferocious and determined american lesbian who could kill a man by staring at him; i am also VERY IN FAVOUR OF HER) but concerned that she won't have much in the way of power and that the mayor's office can't actually grant her any because it's a matter between police and councils - there's yer fucking insight, the head of fabric was discussing which of them should run to be on a local council - i found the 1920s disco and had a gin martini. and then a peach bellini. and then i found maud and fred, and maud found tom carradine (here), we had a cockney knees-up in the victorian gallery, and i had two more peach bellinis, one of which went into my mouth at speeds previously only seen during the olympic 100 metres final.
and then i danced for three hours, largely in a boingy, prancy way, and consumed two "disco apocalypses" and two more proseccos, under this banner. i also befriended, with varying degrees of success, a teacher, a woman with light-up tits, a girl with multi-coloured hair who gave me her hairdresser's phone number, a gay couple in their sixties/seventies - one of whom was dressed from head to toe in Vivian Westwood and informed me cheerfully it was "all on my husband's money" - a guru/holy man in a conga line with light-up shoes (baba was giving blessings at diwali also and has been seen in soho, he is fantastic but very smelly), mr carradine (with whom maud and i have many photographs), another smelly man who was an excellent dancer and introduced me to his massive coterie of women as "the life of the party" and then informed me later that He Was Definitely Straight Okay (why is that my problem) and a morris dancer, because there was a morris demonstration on the dance floor, of the night club, in the museum (video: this is all i have ever wanted from life, i can die happy).
my bag of glitter having sprung a leak, i decided that i would just dance with it in my hand and let it spiral around while i was dancing. occasionally i patted it.
except there was a bit where i got a bit enthusiastic due to the prosecco and the bellinis and may have clapped hands violently over my head at the key change of a song
making the bag BURST
and showering the entire dancefloor but mainly me
with glitter
and attracting excited (female) people from every direction.
GUYS I AM GOING TO DO THIS EVERYWHERE I FUCKING GO.
me and fred post-glittering: i will never, ever, ever be free of gold glitter again for the rest of my life it is absolutely fucking everywhere.
Maud has a photo of me holding aloft a giant cardboard bottle of Poppers while guzzling cocktails with the other hand, but her instragram account is locked and i therefore cannot link you to it. nevertheless: it is an iconic portrait.
Today I struggled through my day's writing (TEETH. BEING PULLED. not helped by STILL BEING DRUNK when i started), discovered that my father has mysteriously sent me money for my birthday this year, as my grandmother also did, despite her not having done so since about 1999. i don't know what's gotten into them all?! why is this happen. this is a fucking weird year. also discovered that someone got SHOT up in muswell hill, WHERE THE POSH LIVE, which comes less than a month after dude got stabbed down in wood green. (unlike the stabbing victim, shooting victim is not dead and looks unlikely to die, which is nice...r? i guess?)
SO YEAH
morris dancing in a night club in a museum, my father isn't calling me names for once, i've got internal bleeding, people are shooting each other, and tonight i'm going to Feeling Goomy for the Pulp special with m'pal Charlie and going to dance some more. Hopefully drink a bit less as debauchery is an expensive hobby.
On the other hand: internal bleeding!