bah!

Let’s not do a round-up of the whole year shall we?

Jesus, that would fucking kill us all; wouldn’t it?!

Here’s a short version…..a round up of the week, in fact, in pictures……and in moving pictures x



Friday night:

Work don't. Dishevelled from the tumultuous rain we gather at a north african restaurant. I pull a learning disabilities drumming teacher in the duration. All goes well till the belly dancer appears.

Godiva is dragged to the floor to private dance for her new beau.

Old boss tells new boss about the time I went to work with spunk embossed on my arm pretending it was a skin complaint. And made her stroke it.

Minimal damage.

Diablo reminds me of the time it was on my stomach. Cum-ins comments that this doesn’t happen anymore. Condoms.


Saturday:

Strap-on-guitar.

Arty arsemas drinkie-poos in regency apartment.

PA to head honcho at young vic. Swipe. Tips on converting wmv files for macs. Swipe. Home-made Swedish cinnamon buns. Gulp. Mulled wine, mulled wine. Fuck that, red wine’s better if you need a hit. When you hit me baby, hit me hard….

Small japanese children designing their own christmas cards. Performance artiste naked in a giant jamjar gives me bum reading. Class. Classy arse. She doesn’t want to tell me there and then. I demand to know.

I am vulnerable, like a child. Not a bad child. Not a bad vulnerable. I am new. Do I? Do I?....she pauses…..‘need?’…..oh god!

It’s a hug. Do I need a hug. Yes sir, but watch yerself or I’ll blab christmas party tears all over yer lovely soft furnishings.

Escape. ‘pop’ to chavvy neighbours ‘do’ in the basement. Seven pm. Fairy dust. Meaty chavs galore. Not enough blood-flow to the head.

Who is this I’m curled up on - like a good, vulnerable child. Ricky, apparently. He’s telling me he’s going to look after me. Hmmmmm.

‘cuddles, that’s nice’, says a semi-lesbian barmaid who’s convinced I’m going out with an oversized jack-black lookalike, or her ex-boyfriend.

I come to. Luckily, I haven’t come too.

I make films:

Fairy dust wears off. Godiva escapes, alone. A big day ahead….


Sunday morn

Early morn train to brockley for cavalry rehearsal.




Sunday night

The doctor's. The neighbours…..

Moon day

Christmas shopping results in single jar of marmalade. And champagne – for me. G-ma’s coming…

it's beginning to look a bit like christmas...

Moon night

Me and jangle-bells rehearse with the band for our gig on wed night. Which mainly involves drinking copious amounts of wine, scranning Pringles till the msg hits us, and pissing ourselves at the hilarious instrument that is…..the tuba




Tuesday

“Work”. Get dragged to HQ christmas do. Fried cheese, garlic bread, head of facilities trussed up bopping about to wham. Female press officer demands slow dance as I try to slope off, head of finance attempts a grope at 7pm. Run to the hills. There aren’t any in london bridge. I make do with steps. A bag-lady witch talking about mother earth and the radioactive urban fox provide me with more intellectual entertainment.

Wednesday

The big day. The gig. Camden. Godiva severs several arteries hitlering the choir.

Just about to unleash ourselves on the unsuspecting camden trendies, I receive a text from mother:

Result.



Thursday I receive another, less fruitful text from mummy:

Happy fucking christmas one and all – mine will involve a bottle of taittinger and seven temazepam….xx