I have recently returned from a dirty weekend in Kings Cross with R.M. We firstly went to veg, for an all you can eat vegan chigga. We thought it best to load up on the vital chigga salts beforehand to replace the essential salts lost through drinking..So we both left angel feeling dry,shrivelled and frankly ripped off. £17 shitting 60 for two "£5" buffets. Fuckers. We did each receive a delightful fruity sweet which kept us juiced until we were far enough away from the establishment to feel the after effects of the shite we'd just absorbed. We were thoroughly salted and gagging for a drink.
Luckily, Marts had a bottle of "maison de charlotte"(three for £10) chilled and waiting. So we popped the cork and enjoyed a refreshing glass of catpiss in his one bed town house. Despite his palatial dwelling in the heart of Kings cross, Dicky Martini is not a vulgar man, his one boudoir is tastefully decorated with bodily fluid and a neutral pallet. His residence is made up of a study,library,movie theatre, drawing room and foyer where a delightful array of "lifestyle" magazines are available for his guests to peruse. Each room is understated and of a modest proportion separated only by a short walk.
We started on for a cultured evening of music and wine, listening to highly refined artists such as RAH-DIGGA and Mariah Carey. We then enjoyed a few dark rums to put us in good stead for the evenings event.
At the sensible time of 9.30 we left for the tube, and made our sozzled way to Leicester Square where we needed to collect vip wrist bands. With talk of "jumpin on a rickshaw, we aint wastin no time" and other variations of the classic tune-Touch it, we bounded on to our destination fuelled with a deep hatred of Vom and all things "highstreet".
Finally we arrived, and qued with baited breath. G.A.Y Hot and Heav was within acrylic pointing distance, but a couple of Ellen Degeneres's warned I might not look gay enough to be granted entry-It was something of a concern. We pondered ways I could look more Dick van Dyke-esk, but ascertained it was impossible. We hoped for the best.
Turned out the foreboding lezzas where talking crap as obviously faghags have a right of passage at such venues. It was interesting looking along the line and seeing how fags and hags complimented each other so immaculately. In front of us stood a tight tee and waist coat wearing hair dresser type,complete with living barbie hag both of them perfectly fake baked. Behind an edgy indie gay in typical denim shirt turned vest, he and his hag had matching hitler youth do's. R.Marni and I stood before them in our smart coats, scarves, faux chanel bag-More private school rents than rent boy. We entered and collected our complimentary pink whistles.
After a quick guided tour of the shit stabbing wonderland, we ordered a staple round of two double gins and vods. Once more drink had led us to believe we were fabulous millionaires and Marts put the £26.70 tab on his card-Not before inquiring as to whether they "took amex", obviously.
We minced about for abit, trying to get into the departure lounge, to no avail, when we stumbled upon a room created by bootilicious angels. With classic r'n'b beats, one after the other-we were home.It was dfg in its purest form, simply intoxicating. So much time passed in this room, before long it was time for the main event,Kelis-and her milkshake certainly did bring all the boys to the yard.
As we edged into the bustling limp wristed crowd-I was mistaken for an Estonian Ellen, my first gay come on.It was quite exciting, even more excitingly we saw none other that Philip Duberg swinging round a pole,wearing nothing but leather chaps and a g-string bearing the Swedish flag.
Kelis was immense, I have never been to a gig like it. The homo crowd was electric. With falling glitter,foam and balloons we really did feel like Mariah Carey.
When she had finished, we retired up to our dfg mecca and got the beers in. I don't know what possessed us to drink beers, as we never drink beers. We sipped san miguels, our skin a cocktail of gay glitter and chigga salts and broke out until 4.30.
After I lifted every free gay publication available, Martini released he'd lost our coat ticket. Post a lot of shouting and acting like we were royalty having lost a couple of priceless furs, We gave up arguing with the bus boy on being told we had to wait til 5.30 to reclaim them. He really could have dropped the attitude,he only works in a cloakroom.
We weedled into the vip area and monged, but gave up waiting at 5.
After bartering with the taxi bastards trying to rip us off, we secured a ride for £20 to the kings cross mcdonalds. Minus £20 and plus 20 nuggs finally we retired to bed.
This image makes me feel so sick, but holds so many golden memories. We look like proud parents, holding and showing off our newborns. I infact look like I've just been through the trauma of giving birth. Ironically, if we did pro-create,our children would be that colour-we would make sure of it.
We slept with the remotes between us to ensure there would be no need for movement in the morning, we reclined and watched Maury until rising to take a short walk to Islington for a delightful pub lunch. We discussed the important things in life, Babes, conspicuous leisure wear and the future. This time we decided to have a child if we are still "sailing solo" in later life.
After lunch we purveyed the shops and Marts tried to find something ridiculously vulgar to buy from J.Wills. We then trawled the boutiques for the perfect cereal bowl. R.M was very picky considering he currently uses a saucepan to fill his face...
I finally retired home to Kunt.
