Helen and I went to this party last night. For her, it was a shag raid. For me, it was favour payback time. I owe Helen big time since she managed to hook Jimmy The Stalker up with this girl she knows, who, rumour has it, is the proud owner of a trick pelvis. I haven't heard from him for two weeks so I guess the rumours are true.
I wasn't really in full-on party mode. I've been burning the candle at both ends for so long that a night in was all I really wanted, one of those gorgeous nights of telly sloth with a pile of additive-rich snacks piled in front of me. Plus I was half pissed by the time we went out, thanks to my blog having been deleted yesterday afternoon, so my eyes were bugging out from sitting in front of my laptop trying to get to grips with techie-geek jargon for too many hours to be healthy. But Helen insisted and dragged me out of the door as soon as I'd managed to get it together enough to throw some mascara at my face and put my heels on.
The party was at this amazing house in South Kensington, one of those places that looks like a wedding cake; all white pillars and stucco frosting. The crowd was kind of lame, full of crimson-cheeked rubgy boys and girls with hockey legs, you know the type. I got lots of bitchy looks from vowel-rich Veronicas with flicky hair. I guess a girl who isn't towing an arse the size of Daddy's estate is a bit of a rarity in that postcode. It was like I was some kind of tourist attraction.
So Helen hooks up with the guy she's after - a full five years older than her usual victims, I was kind of amazed - and I'm left to my own devices. I'm pretty good at amusing myself and within half an hour I'd found the real party, upstairs in a bedroom the size of Buckingham Palace populated by a bunch of slightly edgier hoorah's hoovering up the party dust. That kept me busy for a while but if someone is boring to start with then a nose full of marching powder only serves to enhance it. If you're going to do drugs it really should be with the aim of having fun; for this lot, it was an excuse to drone on about the usual shit they drone on about on a daily basis, just with added attitude and less silences between sentences. Like, zzzzz. I held out until four a.m. and then I got the fuck out of there.
I guess that scene doesn't really do it for me. But Helen texted me a smiley face this morning, so it was all for a good cause.
My face looks like it's on a fast train to Botox and since I'm working at the club tonight so I'd better go back to bed to try and repair some of the damage.
More tomorrow.
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8 comments:
Lol! You exelled yourself with this one :-)
Shame, I haven't done that kind of hoovering for ages.
I'm curious as to what wdky signifies. Is it dyslexic text-message language for wickedly?
Is it an acronym for 'Wome Doesn't Know You'
(think Michael Palin in Life of Brian)
or 'We Drink Ketamin Yoghurt'
or 'Workers Dissension: Kidnap Y-fronts.'
or 'Wicked Development of Kinky Youth.'
Oscar Wilde said that wickedness was an invention of good people to account for the curious attractiveness of other. I spent many years trying to be curiously attractive, I think.
That kind of thing only works half of the time.
New to your blog. Love it.
:-)
thanks wdky
But re. blow, it wasn't that good -I think they were ripped. I would have demanded a refund if I were them. But you know, more money than sense...
lighterate - I suspect it is a short for 'wickedly'. :-)
Well, you'd think they'd have noticed, considering how much of their unearned cash probably ends up going the same route!
Last time I indulged, I ended up putting a fake tattoo on the bum-cheek of a very famous teen star's stepmother. With a wet tea-towel, as I recall :-)
drugs is bad you be ashamed an ask the Lord to help you sinner
Anon... yeah, right ;-)
Hep us, lawd gawd! Hep us!
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