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

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Of Whistles and Flip-Flops

I was recently asked how far I'd go to please someone. I think, roughly, to the end of our road because anything further than that and I'll have to change out of me slippers.

Do you like them? They've got a bit of a fluffy lining which I always catch our Cypriot milkman eyeing up when he comes by to deliver two pints and a dollop of greek yogurt around the back. He's nice enough - hands large and blunt, smelled like the horses he used to pull his cart. Oh we used to flirt outrageously; I used to put a dab of perfume on before he'd come by - 'Touch of Sparkle' which was really exotic back then. You could get it for £2.58 per gallon from the market and it was by some really couture house called 'Poor Homme' or something. Came from somewhere really strange and exotic... somewhere like Norfolk.

Which is odd because my friends always thought I smelled of 'Poverty'. I've never heard of this one - must be a old range that hasn't been on the market for years. Like 'Brut' or something - oh, you couldn't move for bottles of the stuff back in the day. Everyone smelled of it. Even the dog. Especially when he was wet...

I was reminded of the smell this very weekend when I was on the last tube going north. I normally hate travelling
on the blessed things at that time of night - half the clientele are boozed up lunatics and the others are dead-eyed functionaries who look like they're on the way to Auschwitz - but we'd been at our darling friend The Lady Vyse's fifteenth 40th birthday party and it had gotten a bit late. We had a lovely time, even attempting to light as many candles as his years. He says he's never coy about his age; we say that the best ten years of his life were between 39 and 40.

But on the way back was this hideous whiff of Brut which really assaulted the nostrils. I never did get to the bottom of it before some hideous queens bounded on all hyped up from having too many Baccardi Breezers. It was Pride on Saturday; I did not attend. As I've said before I have no pride, and love the idea that the whole thing was a bit of a wash-out as the weather's been abhorrent over here the last week; it's like it's the season finale and we've had everything coming back for a guest role. Yesterday we had blazing sunshine, hail, thunder and lightning and rain - and yet we still get morons walking around in flip-flops and shorts. What happened? Did someone impound your shoes for the summer, you half-wits? My one joy in this weather is sitting in a coffee house and watching them try to walk through the newly-formed lakes in the gutters, trying to keep their footwear on and dignity intact. Bliss.

Anyway, the gays and lesbians on our tube, armed with whistles. Where do they get them all from? The whistles - not the lesbians - there's probably a shop down in Devon where you can get refit as a Lady Wot Licks or something. It'll say so on the rug. But every lesbian you see on Pride day has one - blowing away in the most annoying manner, incessantly, from when they get up in the morning to when they finally fall into their bed at night. What compels them to do it; to be the most hated traveller on the last train out? You'd think they wouldn't like the sound because, as they don't sleep with men, all their other senses are heightened. But noooooo. Blowing away for the whole journey they were.

Does anyone know the magic incantation to make it stop? I was sick of yelling 'Back to your bridge, you evil troll, you have no power here' by the end of it...

5 comments:

Tim said...

Do you remember Tabac? That was a cracking aftershave. I remember the school disco reeked of it when I was 12.

Owen Blacker said...

Jazz and Fahrenheit were the school disco aftershaves of choice in the Westcountry. I really liked them at the time, but I'm sure I'd think they smell awful now :o)

EuroTrash said...

To stop a lesbisexual in her tracks, all you need to yell is "All you need is a bit of doodle and all your problems will be solved!"

I mean, a bit of doodle has solved many a dilemma for me in the past...

CyberPete said...

I've been told they aren't called flip flops anymore, they are Y-sandals

Not that the new name justifies wearing them though. Ever.

Qenny said...

Who in their right mind would attend Pride when the Doctor Who season finale was on? Oh, that's right, they said they were going to show it in Trafalgar Square. And then didn't. Oops.