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

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Doris Strokes

In a shocking turn, I note that Baccadi Breezer profits are down. This could be for a number of reasons; perhaps teenage schoolgirls have eschewed them for a week so they can wisely spend their dinner money on the new Girls Aloud instead of getting trollied before double maths. Or maybe it's simply because I'm still ill and haven't been able to drink for almost a month now.

I know, I know, shocking isn't it? I'm seeing the world for the first time without my Vodka Visor on for the first extended period since Sixth Form. And the scales have fallen from my eyes - The Cheeky Girls aren't a semi-talented novelty act, but an embarrassing tuneless shambles! I'm shocked!

I couldn't even drink to make my work colleagues more bearable the weekend gone - the most hardcore I got was snorting a line of Lemsip, chopped up using a company credit card. Rock on.

(It does make your snot remarkably lemon-fresh)

So with my illness still raging, I popped into the doctors yesterday, steadying my special 'illness turban' and swishing my mink around me. While I do live in a very enchanting street, there is what appears to be a council estate within a stones-throw of my suburban dream, and I find that a little glamour will soon get you to the front of the queue of some council tuberculosis-riddled mine-workers. Once there I was blissfully seen to by an enormous black nurse called Doris - all swishing hips and a bosom that was nigh-on horizontal. I could tell she brooked no nonsense from the way she snapped on the rubber glove and dived straight into my urine sample.

"So, am I normal," I asked with weak cheer as she checked the results.

She said, "Well, your urine is. The rest of you - well, it's the best of a bad job, really..."

I heart her. Everyone should have a Doris.

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