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

Friday, June 02, 2006


I've done some raw things in my time. Been chased around a rooftop by Clare Rayner during an eclipse. Sniffed a line of Lemsip off the back of a company credit card in Rome.

But I talk a good game. And only once have I partaken of that zenith of nose candy, the Devil's Dancing Powder itself. Which is pretty good considering I work in the media and most people I know seem to have appalling nose dandruff.

Picture the scene: many years back, a wide eyed (and equally wide-legged) ingénue down in London, out on the town when a gentleman friend pulls me into the toilet cubicle. Now, I was no stranger to that sort of behaviour as I'm sure you're aware. Even to the point when he bent me over the cistern and told me he was going to show me something that will change my life.

Now as a sideline, I had heard that line once before: on my first night of university, where I'd been drinking with a motley assortment of gentlemen for some hours. One of them sidled up to me as the bar was closing and said he was going to show me something that would change my life, and told me to accompany him a little further down the bank next to the water. And - my lord - he did. And for some hours following, we did indeed put the term 'anal' back into 'canal'.

Anyway, back to the toilet cubicle, where a line was now chopped up and laid out before me. Virginal white on the cistern. One quick snort and it was gone.

And so was I.

I remember dancing. Eyes like dinner plates, clearly wired to the moon, arms everywhere. Thinking I was the greatest dancer and wondering why on earth every single person in the room had turned their backs to me. No matter what I did, people just ignored me more. So I stormed off, grabbed a taxi and headed towards my home.

Although I didn't quite make it. The journey home involved going past, well, let's just call it a Gentleman's Health Spa. You know the ones: always advertising in the press for Gentlemen Who Moisturise with pictures of men you have no hope of meeting in there. You have, in your mind, images of toned gentlemen languishing in glamorous pools, just waiting for your arrival. What you do get is hairy-backed men with stomachs folding over their white towel, splashing around in the shallow end of a stagnant pool that could double as primordial soup.

Clearly I wasn't in a state to remember this at this juncture. "STOP THIS TAXI!" I shrieked, throwing a bundle of cash at the driver before stalking off to the entrance, almost getting run over in the process.

I think it had all become a little too much by this point. I don't remember much else, just the odd flash (for want of a better phrase). It was rather like a poorly edited 1980s pop video. People running down corridors with fabric billowing behind them, someone squealing my name at half the speed, and an awful lot bare hanging bulbs, swinging a bit sadly.

I came to, several hours later, no idea where I was. I was arse-up on a crash mat in one of their rest-rooms with a throat as dry as an arab's fart, and a half-eaten cheese toastie sliding down my face.

And let that be a lesson for you. For I've certainly learnt mine.


DanProject76 said...

And that is why Lee should do a tour of schools with his 'Drugs R Bad' campaign.

CyberPete said...

Yup! Except you think it was half eaten cheese toasties...

Consider yourself lucky that you don't remember it all

First Nations said...

sounds like a mastoid process full of scouring powder to me.i think next time you ought to check a little more carefully to make sure the cleaning lady is finished in the restroom.

coolbuddha said...

I had a similar experience after a couple of haliborange, although I woke up face down in the cookware section in John Lewis. Haven't been near a Le Creuset omelette pan since.

tornwordo said...

Very accurate description of the spa.

Bare hanging bulbs? Sadly swinging? You've outdone yourself, lol.

No Shit Sherlock said...

Woa. I wouldn't Want to remember. On the other hand, don't you read the propaganda? You got off lucky... |A cheese Toastie wasn't the worst thing that could be sliding down your face chickadee.

Inexplicable DeVice said...

Toot toot. Beep beep! Where's Donna Summer when you need her?

Qenny said...

I'm so glad you came too. Er, to.

> throat as dry as an arab's fart


Look what you made me do! And no-one, but no-one guffaws these days.

Miss Cellania said...

Ha! I love your puns.. and those of your commenters, too!

mr null said...

That is just the most brilliantly visual piece of writing ;-)