141109 charity case

Oh sweet lord, who needs canapés when there’s natural acid?

I am in the middle of a charity ball. Writing with a fucking pencil, hiding in the corner awaiting opportunities to thieve hand-made chocolates.

And my brother’s band is on. And a million posh drunk people are dancing. Which is a contradiction in terms. Do I stroll onto the dance floor and perform an elaborate buleria, I wonder? And the band are fucking good; better then they deserve.

But what’s this on the official invite I’ve swiped? Burger and chips. BURGER AND FUCKING CHIPS, for £100 a head? And I’m with my friend’s husband. And we’re stoned. What could be more appropriate?

The piece of paper I’m writing on says,

‘The Big Love Ball. Sorry! Not this time!’

You’re telling me! About to menstruate at any given moment, I sit ballooned but neatly tucked into my glittery tights and Balinese whore’s dress.

Too many manners to spit at you, but not enough to have developed any self-awareness, they waft before me in varying states of disarray.

There are three women who look like they’ve necked a couple of Es. One of them, hardly a spring chicken, is spiralling out of control. She gushes over to an upper-class hippy in a chiffon tunic and kisses her. When she walks away, the others curl their lips and turn their noses up.

I love them.

Give me your fucking money.

What is it you’ve been wishing for, Godiva? Wealth. I’d buy enough time to sort myself out, then I’d sort everyone else out. Personal kickbox instructor, dance teacher, yogi, masseuse, chef, stylist and surely a discreet gigolo, I would, indeed, be sorted. And here are the ones who could give me that.

And they either bob from side to side like they’ve got something itchy in their control pants, or they swagger about being snapped and papped; a host with a boyband version of Stephen Fry’s quiff poses with a punter. Before the flash goes he wriggles his body smarmily from side to side to create some sort of cad effect. Repulsive.

Sitting here, I remember I have a purpose here. I remark to the well-kempt blonde next to me that my job is to scream at the end of every song, hoping she will imagine a sense of irony in my tone. Alas, she politely dismisses me, I’ve obviously got a bit rusty.

No, my job is to help the photographer with his nift camera work.

Horrified, I realise that this is the closest I’ve been to a date in ages. In fact, have I been on one this year?...........

The answer is, if I remember at all correctly, (which is a worry), yes. But if you want to get down to statistics, let’s just say I ended up in bed with less of the dates, and more of the animals I led to be slaughtered in my farmyard.

And now I am on a warped date with my friend’s husband, the photographer. Well, if it’s a date, statistics prove that we won’t end up in bed, which is a relief. But other people’s husbands are known to like me. A kind of cheaper, feral alternative to a wife. Oh lord, thank you for the guilt you have bestowed upon me, for I simply couldn’t.

You hear about these women who go off with their friend’s husbands, and I imagine it to be a cheap glittery shift dress from new look and a couple of bottles of lambrusco that did it. But now I understand. Should the wife really have been the catalyst in someone else’s love story? Whatever happened to networking?

He just tried to steal this piece of paper from me, and he doesn’t know about my blog. Or the fact I’m writing about him. Shit, that could’ve been an awkward moment - or a lambrusco moment. A writer and a photographer, and he hasn’t got his wedding ring on. Hmmmmmmmmmm, best unpublish this blog if they ever clock on.

*ASIDE: Talking of things catching, my stalker’s back, isn’t he? Had to turn him away from twitter, ignore him on facebook and block him on ‘friendster’, and that’s just today. I ask you. What the fuck’s ‘friendster’ anyway. One of those weird sites you added when you were following Malaysian teenagers’ lead in social networking, only to discover facebook a month later.*

Back to the big lurve ball. The old bird on E is psychotically staring intently into the eyes of a relatively-innocent looking Greek guy. He looks like his burger didn’t go down well and he’s still hungry. And it’s me he wants a slice of, as I provocatively bop in a mock-posh way from side to side.

Smell the danger baby, that’s a corned-beef upbringing for you, come and get a bit of rough! I’ll give you burger and chips, a lemon curd sandwich AND a spam fritter if you play your cards right!