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

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Poor

You know in a lazy sit-com where one monied character somehow has their assets frozen, usually to give them a life lesson in how the 'ordinary' folk live? That hackneyed old plot-point? Oh yes Karen Walker, I'm looking at you. Or more specifically, looking at you having to stay in your own Harlem slum apartment, clutching your mink coat around you and singing 'My Favourite Things' under your breath. And while I'm very aware that I do this every time I pass a Primark or, on more than one occasion, find myself on the end of a foldout bed in Lewisham after some thick-fingered workman has offered to take me back to his for a 'bit of the old Roman' while he lumbers off to wash his member in the kitchen sink.

I'm sorry, I digress. The point I was trying to get around to was this: yesterday I got hit by the most ginormous tax bill. And I mean enormous; I was expecting Janet Jackson circa 'The Velvet Rope', but actually got Janet Jackson in between 'Damita Jo' and '20 YO'. Good god yes, that big. Now I've been wonderfully blessed when it comes to cash - from not having any as a child to working all the hours that the Lord Cher sends in a high paid job, I've been what we euphemistically call 'comfortable' for the past couple of years. While I haven't exactly been holidaying in the Seychelles on the weekend, I have been dining in fine restaurants and giving outrageous tips to beautiful waiters. Like that impossibly handsome one in Balans the other week, with eyes the colour of chipped blue tiles found in Moroccan fountains, and a stature that would make Michaelangelo bite his knuckle and hijack the Renaissance again. Oh yes, this waiter had this wonderful habit of nigh-on accidentally resting his packet on the table edge as he took your order, rather in the manner of a weary postman pausing to rest his letters upon a wall. Well, when provoked like that, I had to order the Sunday roast. "Are you sure?' asked the waiter. "There's a lot of meat there. You sure you can handle it?" he said with no sense of detectable irony. I squeaked a response, and both myself and my dining companion found we were clutching each other's thighs in mute delight. And that's why he got a £100 tip and my phone number.

My problem is I don't think I know how to act frugal any more. I suppose this means I'll have to eschew going straight for the cocktail menu and actually have to have *hack* *gag* 'the house white'. Oh lord, I just sicked up a little in my mouth. Is this what the ordinary folk feel daily? I'm surprised you get out of your bed, even if its to turn on Channel 5 and order a breakfast pizza. I suddenly have the urge to get head lice and have a half a disassembled Ford Fiesta on the front lawn.

I could go back to my old ways of streetwalking, but lets face it. I'm a little past my prime now. Punters don't want to get down to your area and find that your pubes are slowly resembling grey sea-matting. Perhaps there's a line in rent boy ('boy' - ha!) that specializes in sitting in all night watching Cary Grant movies with the punter, then going to sleep together with a facepack on and a quick peck on the cheek and asking whether the alarm's been set. I tell you, I'd be quids in with that one. Do shout if that's your thing and willing to pay around £10,000 for the privilege.

I used to know an actress who used to say 'Champagne and taxis, darling. Just make sure you have enough for champagne and taxis. Everything else is negotiable'. I think I'll be taking this route for the next month or so. My clothes may become threadbare, I may look like I'm growing my hair out, but I'll still arrive - and get drunk - in style.

3 comments:

Tim said...

If the waiter calls, ask for your money back.

mike said...

"Bit of the old Roman" - if that's rhyming slang, then I'm stumped. Polanski/wankski, perchance?

CyberPete said...

Champagne and taxis?

Yes, please! Stay fabulous.

If you start having the house white it'll be the one way ticket to plumber crack and cheap beer

Bleugh!