Don't forget! Vote for Glitter for Brains in the Pink Paper's Awards! Click here for details!
Happy new year to you all, dear viewers!
I do hope you saw yours in with a bang. I saw mine in on London Bridge, watching the fireworks and avoiding all the foreigners having a brave but futile stab at that Auld Lang business - darlings, we don't know the words and we've had over two centuries of it. It was a quiet end to a turbulent year and I was glad to be sailing through it all and was home within 20 minutes. That's what I like; I'm getting far too old to be out past midnight these days and besides, I'd had all my drama the previous night when I was thrown out of a pub.
Now, I'm as surprised as you, darling viewer, to realize that this has never happened before. Probably because I'm often found with faded feathers in my hair, in the dress I used to wear, sitting there so refined and drinking myself half-blind that I thought I was in a brawl with Tony and Rico and his big diamond thirty years ago. Oh well. It also turns out that I've never been to Club Tropicana either, dammit. Curse you, The Eighties.
You don't need to know the whole details, other than there wasn't a Lady What Uses Power Tools involved at all. I know! Yet another surprise - I do believe that most of my Lezbee friends don't think they've had their money's worth in a club less they've smashed some pint glasses and been punched in the tit by an ex-girlfriend. I'm not one to judge, but I like to think you can have a much more positive end to an evening. I tend to treat my final moments in a bar pretty much the same way I am post-coital: fix my hair, throw a couple of notes down in front of whoever was serving me, before walking out to a standing ovation.
But not this night, no. Due to various friends leaving early I'd been maneuvered onto a table with three complete strangers who somehow we'd got chatting to. The pre-New Years Eve bonne homme was clearly flowing early and these three were tourists who'd only come over after they'd packed their clichés: one was a squeaky-voiced, big-breasted fag-hag, one was a snippy gay with tonsured hair and flint eyes, and the other was an overly-cheerful chap from the Orient. He was called Michael, and while I chatted on to the latter, the former duo started a bit of a to-do with the gentlemen on the table next to us. I'm not sure how it started. Something about a jacket. But then the words got more colourful, and someone got slapped and a bouncer came over. Then there was drinks flying over everyone, someone was on the floor, the jukebox screeched to a halt and I was grasped by the collar and manhandled out, protesting heartily.
And the next thing I knew I was contemplating the pavement while the large-jugged, squeaky one suddenly became a vengeful banshee covered in Carlsberg, hammering on the windows and screaming blue murder. 'What larks!' thought I as I rolled over and got up, listening to the crashes and screams behind me as I walked on slowly to the tube station. No point sticking around, I didn't know them from Adam.
For some reason I started grinning as I heard a police siren wail in the distance, so I put 'Murder on the Dancefloor' on my iPod and skipped home.