Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Monday, October 20, 2003

"You Bring Me That Black Bitch Up Here And I Will Show You How I'll Do Her!"

With the sun slipping southwards, I find myself with a malaise brought on by the chilly weather. Cheryl The Destroyer’s trial does help slightly. I’m hardly in any doubt that she did lamp Mrs Ambunkdo of 38 Acadia Avenue first as, frankly, those toilet attendants really are a menace to society. They perch in their spider’s web of Dior and Calvin Klien aftershaves, plotting the downfall of mankind and girl groups from their little tables. Do you know that the Obsession is actually mace? This is why you wake up three hours later in a cubicle, on hands and knees with your kidneys missing. But smelling fabulously.

This is why I always keep a green picnic cooler of kidneys at the coat check. Oh, they say I’m overly cautious. They also say I’m slightly selfish, and that the sixteen spare organs could go to some children’s hospital somewhere. I say I’m being vigilant – and I have the scars at the base of my back to prove it – and yellow is such a good colour on some people, anyway.

I do not know what’s in the soap, and nor do I want to. I recall one incident where the bothersome attendant was so insistent that I sample his lathery delights he actually chased me out of the door, his nozzle aimed with Navy-like precision at my fleeing palms. It does seem they are without power away from their lollypops as he stopped on the edge of the dancefloor, blinking in the light before returning to his table post-haste to continue peddling his squirts and sprays to strangers.

Speaking of which, it is a well-known fact you can graduate with your Gay Card only when you’ve had a fumbling in the Formica bingo-hall of G-A-Y, and there was one Gents gentleman who did help me out with a squirt and a spray on a stranger whilst in their loos, and so my hat is firmly off to him. “Remember to tip your host,” he rumbled as we left the cubicle, a little flushed. He even made sure we washed our hands with his soap that he... hey!

Anyway. This doesn’t help poor Cheryl who’s probably being fitted for her prison uniform as we speak (hopefully made of No Good Advice tin-foil). The only other toilet attendant she’ll likely to meet being the woman who comes around in the night to empty the buckets, thank you very much. But just imagine if you could get your hands on the raffia work she’s going to be doing in her social hours - to eBay with you, post haste! Meanwhile, the rest of the Girls will be around to promote their new single Jump, a slightly lacklustre cover of the Pointer Sister’s magnum opus. With my Fickle-o-meter wavering in some direction away from it, it seems I’m gradually losing interest in my jumpsuited Argos artisans. Yet there is one notable delight in the video, as pointed out by Weirdly Dark Housemate Ian: when they’ve all got their glasses up against the wall, purporting to listen to the inserted film footage of Hugh Grant in the next room, most of the girls are using it against their ear. One, whereas, is looking through it.

Oh dear.

Good luck, Cheryl. I already made my t-shirt with ‘Free The Croydon One’ on it.

1 comment:

A said...

Whatever happened to Cheryl Tweedy? Presumably still in gaol.