Thursday, 04 Sept 09

You can call me Psychic Glenda. Go on, do it.

Here it is, as it comes to me. Om...
The usual timings are a little fucked
(If you're new to this, get lubed up and jump in*. As the day progresses so we write about what happened based on detailed timings.)
* = revolting analogy.

I went into Armani today, I slapped down my credit card and I said to the guy with the shaved head and shaved chest behind the counter, "go on, fuck me."

And he wrapped it up and put it in a bag.

Do you like my new jacket?

It has zips and it feels beautiful.

I am one of those people who has as much style as a fucking bedspread but when I see things I like, I have to have them.

Of course, if I had a million pounds I would be the best dressed fucking homo in the whole of London-town.

Armani is posh but trashy. Faux-trash is in. Trust me I'm a psychic - I know what fucking shit is being hatched on the horizon.

Glenda hatches more
So I am shopping in Westfield and inside I am spunking all over my new Armani jacket.

While walking through the centre I look around. "Look, you fuckers... it's fucking Armani, baby."

Everyone is looking at me because my new jacket is fucking beautiful. It's fucking Goya. And Lautrec.

I stroll through Westfield and quietly I am shitting style and taste. My discernment is smeared on the shop windows like a mentalist with bad teeth and vocal tic does with his own shit.

But mine isn't shit. Mine paints a fucking raindow of beauty. It smells of jasmine and newly-watered roses. Like Estee Lauder.

Glenda hatches more
Who the hell is this in front of me?

Why it's one of the hottest men who's ever touched a rugby ball.

(He is my height. We see eye-to-eye.)

I need to remind myself of this hotness so I am Googling "Josh Lewsey shirtless" and this is what appears...

Er. I don't think that's him. Here's the search, look for yourself... Look ma, no shirtless.
As everyone who's concerned in these matters is, I have asked for a statement on the issue of this Google search and have received the following, flown in by my personal courier pigeon...

From The Office of La Bloggeur du Prep dans Le Londres*:
"Oh dear God I look so skinny there, thankfully I've put on some muscle since."
He is pithy and he is right. He sees fact and dives in to swim amongst it's many virtues.

I say to him "you can only be strong for so long, it may not eat you but it will beat you. This is why I tell you I really don't understand."

Like the call of a madman at the front door of a women who dresses in lingerie, Ένας άνδρας γράφει στο Διαδίκτυο says "I seem to be eternally linked to Josh on the interwebs."

This is just the kind of delusional, cross-eyed weirdness that we so love. Yes, you are forever linked. The bond is strong and enduring and it is beautiful. And secretly Joshua knows and accepts this too.

(* = The singer formally known as London Preppy)

And so.

The Josh and I are in Holland and Barrett and we both are in the queue buying gym supplements and he never looked at me like I was in imposter.
File under: Ricochet Compliment

Glenda hatches more
I am sitting having supper with Liam. We had planned to gym but there's been a tragedy in the soft-seating area.

While there, Liam got a call from a friend to say that a very good mutual acquaintance had committed suicide. Well, that's shat shit on everything a little.

But as in the final scene of Carry On Up The Khyber... our dinner continues merrily despite the pall of tragedy that hangs in the air.

We still decide that we're going to have fun in two weeks' time and drink booze and stuff the night fantastic. We toast this over dinner as we remember Liam's friend who's died.

Do you know... (and here comes the fucking blog epiphany of the evening...)

In the five years I was at boarding school, every year a boy tried to commit suicide. In 1995, my second last year, a guy succeeded. He hanged himself and died in the showers.

In my first year, I had the horrific (and I use that word genuinely) misfortune to find young Brent, a student from Namibia, slumped in a pool of his own blood in the corner of the bathroom. He'd slit his wrists with a penknife.

He survived but was taken out of the school. That year we had to study Dead Poets' Society (DPS).

As you know, the film details a harrowing suicide.

It didn't go down well with my parents that I had saved a boys' life who'd tried to top himself but now teachers were forcing me to watch and digest DPS.

The next year I was made a prefect.

Fucking private schools. So corrupt they made the poppy-growing tribal leaders in Afghanistan seem as pure as Camden Council library monitors.

What I'm saying is that no matter how shit things get, suicide is worthless, useless, selfish, ... you get the idea.

Glenda hatches more
I think I've had enough now.

Talk amongst yourselves. Talk dirty. Talk Talk. It's good to talk.