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

Monday, December 01, 2003

"Veryverygoodnotbad"

Milk curdled after being on the counter for only two minutes? Cat sitting in the corner of the room, hissing and slashing at anyone who goes near it? That’s right, my evil best friend Declan had popped down to visit for the weekend. There now follows a full casualty count. If your husband or relative is on this list, you may apply for governmental aid or a state burial.

It was on the Thursday evening that he arrived for his birthday, full of pep, verve and some very cheap vodka, his mood oddly ebullient. Earlier in the week his horoscope stated he’d pull a man with the use of new chat-up lines, plus other events he claimed had already come true in the week. Probably a calf would drop dead in his village. That’s always happening near him. But he decided that we were going out with gusto in order to find this gentleman caller so he could use this new line and ‘tip his filthy concrete’ (his words). Personally I feel that there was no way he could have improved on the old chat-up line, which was the height of good taste: “How about slipping me a length? I’m dripping like a fucked fridge here.”

Two days of drinking and still no sign of the final divination coming true. We drank a drink in it’s honour on our pub tour, encompassing all other bars from the playgroup that is Ku Bar to the elephant’s graveyard of 79CXR. If you travel from the former to the latter via the Yard and Rupert Street, you can witness the lifecycle of the gay man in full, it’s really rather creepy. But with all this Professor Trelawney nonsense going on, I was spurred on to give the psychic thing a go myself the following day, while Declan went to church. I’m not sure why he does this; maybe if he doesn’t burst into flames crossing the threshold means there’s still some good in him after all. Needless to say that he met me post-reading looking like Judith Charmers.

For myself, I think the carbon test for any divination should be whether they say you’re going to get married and have kids. Declan had been to a psychic a few weeks beforehand and been completely unimpressed. “You’re going to get married to a woman you already know,” lisped the psychic. “And you’re going to have two kids called - “ Declan couldn’t remember what they were called. It was something common and he’d lost interest as soon as he said that he was going to be hitched. Honestly, it’s his own fault though; would you go and see a psychic called ‘Barry Potter’?

Anyway, mine turned out to be a little more competent. She lay down the cards and asked me straight out whether I was a mary. “There are no women in your cards at all,” she said, staring over my left shoulder. I’d been warned about this - this was where she saw her visions which included my job (spot on, describing the equipment I use) and a silver sports car that I should watch out for. But in a good way. She even described my trip to LA for the convention and then going on to Oz. It was all rather unnerving. I was also to watch out for a guy called Barry, who had nice arms and shaved head. Oh, dear Mandy the psychic, that really was an easy point, wasn’t it? I’m always on the lookout for someone like that! And some other guy, about five-foot-seven who worked in a club who would be a threat to my relationship but would then become a very good friend.

I must admit that I was feeling rather uneasy about all this until I managed to tie it all down in my head. Besides, Declan’s prophecy hadn’t paid off: come Sunday evening, and he still hadn’t, so I decided to call it a day drinking and head home with Declan promising to follow me behind and just have one more drink (I dislike leaving him unsupervised). Three hours later when I passed out, I get a phone call. He’d pulled.

I get to idly question him when he finally crawled back to my house a few hours back to relieve us of his arcane spell books and samsonite luggage. The guy was called Pete. And I asked him about a new chat-up line. Indeed he did use one:

“Let’s go back to yours. By the time you’re finished, I want to look like a plasterer’s radio.”

Barry, if you’re out there, drop me a line. We can get it all out of the way and you’ll get a Christmas card to boot.

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