By Rollerblade on August 13, 2010
AS COLD AS MARGARET THATCHER’S TITS
The weather is as cold as Margaret Thatcher’s tits. My boiler has packed up. The sub-Siberian chill necessitates wearing my fur hat, leather jacket and rocket boots indoors. As I live alone, apart from Geezer’s occasional visits, I can dress how I please. I can also do as I please, without having to appear to be a simpering sex kitten at all times. (which I would be the instant My Man Max showed up. And I always look my best for Geezer. Who might be a bastard but he can fix cars and women. Temporarily, I’m afraid. I need more than his brute strength and big dick. I still break down and need another servicing from My Man Max.) Still, I’m a bit of a geezer bird when it comes to housekeeping. Or, let’s be frank, I’m a drug addict. Once you are one of the select few who take ketamine before breakfast, the upper echelons, among the highest in the land,
you can have soup in bed and let the crumbs fall where they may.
I can swop Noel Edmonds for Sarah Jessica Parker in the centre of my dartboard and dot the wall around it with little dart pricks. K is intensely beautiful but it plays havoc with the coordination. Mind you, we could slim down those darts players pretty quickly on my k plan diet. Just wouldn’t like to be around when they got the horrors. Geezer was a bit of a handful on it, screaming his head off and careering around like a rogue elephant.
Ho-hum. Still waiting for My Man Max to call. The irony is that I couldn’t pick up the phone. Because I would sound like I’d drunk two pints of vodka or suffered a stroke. So why do it? Why indeed…
I’ll be back to twelve stepping later this week, trying to wear the hair shirt with the other drug failures. Clean and sober I have more time and energy for fixing things. I can ponder the mysteries of the universe. Why, for instance, long after Sex and the City has stiffed, must we still have Sarah Jessica Parker? I know she can act but Samantha and the Airheads really gets on my nerves. At least Samantha (my Samantha) appears to actually like sex, the others just want to swap it for goods and services. (“Just like you, you daft whore!” Well, yes, but the difference is that I trade as a sex worker not as whatever these unconvincing woman are supposed to be.)
The show’s written by gay men and is indeed witty and gossipy as an enjoyable half hour’s dirt dishing. But when was the last time there was a group of four female friends? Which stayed together for longer than it took for one person to get drunk enough to get bitchy? The chances of four such female friends all liking sex for its own sake aren’t that good. (“It’s fiction, you drug-addled misery! You know, entertainment!”)
Well, I take your point and I shall refrain from mentioning the many behind the scenes feuds between the four stars. Female friendship?
That lasts? My tight little butt, baby. It doesn’t exist. Men aren’t necessarily any better at friendship but at least their cut throat competitiveness is out in the open. Although it inevitably involves meaningless, trivial tests of strength; Playstation battles, the smallest phone, the most annoying ring tone, the most expensive car. Perhaps they should have set Sex and the City in the future and called it Science Fiction. I’d like to see Sarah Jessica Parker bald come to think of it. (Especially if I could shave her head. And tar and feather her afterwards). I’d like to see Samantha in a big head dress and a tight silver catsuit. The other two can be jettisoned to orbit Pluto.
Right. That’s settled then. Unfortunately I still want some K. And I always will. Never mind the euphoric out of body experiences. ‘Psychedelic heroin’ is also a very effective painkiller. And that’s all I can feel right now. Pain.
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