Last night we went to see Dom’s band the Death Rays. The most beautiful girl in the world was there, djing in a neglige. There were lots of young sorts too, with angular haircuts and leather jackets. I had gone for the ageing Teddy boy look, and felt a bit like Richard Hawley’s talentless brother.
I was consumed with lust for the dj and so to ease my conscience, I tried some reverse psychology on Esther.
“Isn’t it really easy to just wear your underwear?” I commented, slipping with relish into the role of gay bitch that comes so naturally to me,
“Oh that’s so obvious” Esther and Lisa chimed disapprovingly.
The theory behind this is that men are weak and any woman who wants attention can merely wear something that leaves little to the imagination if she wants her objectification fix. Any woman who does this is of course a backstabbing biatch who is breaking the code of demure femininity.
Instead of conveying my latent lust, I ended up sounding like I was jealous of her. Me, jealous! As if! Who needs to be ridiculously hot anyway?
Right now, Esther and Lisa are asleep in the bed like two courgettes comatose in a grow bag.
The tv is muted so as not to disturb them, and I am watching ‘Ad of the Year’. The talking heads on it are minor characters from Corrie, and Lorraine Kelly. The ad breaks in it seem kind of superfluous.
Last night Govinda had a KLF moment and decided to rip up her paper money. She tore a fiver into 4 pieces and threw it in the air, and fired up by the moment, deconstructed a Twenty into ten tiny pieces. She was egged on by Damon, poet and aesthete. In the end, £35 floated down the street like billionaire’s confetti.
Of course she wished she hadn’t the next day, but it was a spontaneous punk gesture that only a drunk person would dare to carry out, and it gave me a rare thrill.