I love Crisps.

As a devout crisp eater, this was exciting.

 On the right is me perched on an iconic spot for crisp eaters.

On the left is iconic crisp eater Gary Linekar.   

Jeepers, our bums have basically touched.

Couple of cheeky films I made.

"Layer Up"- promotional film for Aubin&Wills début fragrance. from emmaharris on Vimeo.

A Film for Aubin and Wills- Behind the scenes. from emmaharris on Vimeo.

I made these films with the help of my innovative film maker friend Grace Brennan. We created them as a means to promote a new fragrance for Aubin&Wills (a selection of natural individual scents which can be tailored and worn to the wearers taste) We called it "Layer Up" as the fragrance compliments the brands signature layered styling. We also made a documentary just for shits and gigs really. All filming, styling, art direction, sound, direction and editing was done by us.....we are not professional film techno's...but I think the films showcase out intentions in an acceptable way. The mood of the film is just lovely and nice, with the aim to make you feel warm and squiggly. 

rah-chigga and 20 nuggs.

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.

A representation of my friendship with Grace Brennan.

I love cats.

Best Coast.

The dog days are over..

Finally back to my humble abode, listening to Florence whilst reclining in the tric. All is good bar the fact we've got shitting cas in the morning and all my clothes are either dirty or wet. There is a light however, I have just noticed the RIDICULOUS amount of knit wear I'm hoarding up in this postage stamp and if needs be, I guess attempting to fashion a few garments from the collection is an option. A particularly christmassy number has actually doubled as a pair of harem pants before and looked pretty fly. It makes me sad seeing the poor buggers stuffed at the bottom of my classic 90's melamine wardrobe but at the same time angry at how they just loll about crushing my other (all be them shitty) clothes and they jump out everywhere ,always trying to escape. When they take the leap, they sort of blossom and starjump with glee, free from the tight bundles they are forced into.It is both annoying and most ungrateful behaviour to be honest, I understand conditions aren't ideal, they are kept like battery jumpers and when they attempt to roam I do feel bad so let them taste freedom for a while. Only until I tidy though, then its back to the squalid constriction whence they came, but if I didn't re-home them, no-one else would buy the crusty little bastards. There are the odd few that get special treatment and sometimes lord it up on my chair, my prize wolf sweater for example and the pretentious JW wankers, but only because they cost an arm and a leg. My favourites are definitely a navy Bestival steal that always smells like home even after a Medway wash(you can just see its mustard and burgundy striped arm) and a silver and white striped mohair number which came with a free vintage bogey, a barg at just £1.(currently stuffed in a bag waiting for a wash).

Todays journey wasn't the hell I'd anticipated. Granted it started badly with me unable to get out of bed for some unknown reason and then standing in a shop whilst too pre-pube teens monged out over the decision whether they needed a bag or not. This made me rather irate and resulted in missing the boat to which I exclaimed "FOR FUCK SAKE" before a clan of Canadian grannies and wight link staff.I did fear they wouldn't let me board after this,so I wore sunglasses back. I went home and ate the first of my tastey ginsters treats and watched a last Trisha with skip and retried the boat an hour later. All was well and I was allowed on...a rather strange eyebrow man was sat near me though, he smelt weird too, not of anything in particular or that strong, just unpleasant.I hoped this chain of unfortunate events was not the way things would continue...

Luckily it wasn't.There was a train to Vic waiting,last time I had to change at clappers and the stairs to the platform were gone so they provided what was essentially a ladder for me to fall down with my suitcase, it was terrifying.

Anyway I digress as per usual, I even managed to bag a four seater WITH TABLE and sat reading my mountain of publications, surrounded myself with them infact, had some water, sunglasses upon my head-was feeling fresh, until..

I was just getting stuck into why Cheryl is too scared to ditch Ashley when this woman in a parker got on at Gatwick. She decided to sit at my reading desk with me, fair enough I guess...there is a whole train, but feel free. So I put all the shit in my bag and continued. She THEN decided to move an empty coke bot from the chair she WASN'T sitting on or effecting her in anyway to the table where I was reading. It rolled and rolled and clattered up and down my reading space all the way to three bridges. I couldn't really move it without seeming like a dick and was getting more and more irritated; as a source close to Cheryl described her as a serial monogamist. Eventually it rolled onto the floor and a man put it in a bin.

I moved on. "How to get a dream bod like Katy Perry in just 25 minutes"?? ooooh, My eyes excitedly met the page as the banana sandwich met her lips. My god, the baine of my LIFE is noisy, disgusting eaters and parker woman sat before me smudging this mushy meal around her mouth, chamming with every mouthful whilst simultaneously smacking her lips together, what a talent. She finished one and then took out another, that was it.I had to eat my emergency second ginsters treat in an attempt to drown her out. It was hellish trying to force this delicious peppered steak dream down my throat when I really had no room for it , just to distract from some womans bad manners. It was torture, such a waste. Eventually it stopped and I could continue learning "why you should NEVER dtr."(define the relationship apparently.)

The rest of the journey was pretty smooth sailing. Chammer got off at Vic and there was the perfect amount of time to get a ticket( took a risk on the railcard option, saved a fiver.) and also to read an delightful article on bum fun. Whilst taking in this life lesson, I came across a most enjoyable phrase.

" let's say you love it- and anal sex is the fabulous orgasm party you've been dying to attend your whole life"

also

"don't overdo it-you don't want too much of a battering."

Then the train came.

The Vicky to Chavham route is normally like a J.Kyle show, today however was fine but bit more like a train into Baghdad- tinsy bit cramped.

The arrival at chats is the worst bit, the realisation you must now walk 30mins whilst lugging your baggage about your person, a journey culminating in three consequetive hills.It is quite the bitch, but still, couldn't help thinking about the lattices I was burning off and also hoping the weight of my case filled with slutty heels on my left arm and bag stuffed with mags on my right, might stretch my arms into thin ballerina sticks.

Grace was there to greet me on my return, and also a card from my Nanuska and a parcel...exciting. It smelt divine. I opened the card first to find it signed Sharon, Sharon? who the fuck is Sharon....

I glanced at the gift, there it was "party lites". It was from Shamone mother fucker wasn't it. WHAT a welcome.

Thanks Shaz, you diamond.

It really did brighten my day ALOT. I also like the irony, brighten/candles.

Maybe Shaz wrote the bum fun piece.

What a wonderful return after all that dread, a present from Shaz, card from my Nan and a Stella with Gstring and Gail whilst absorbing some crap tv.

Perhaps as Flozza says, the dog days of Stevens close really are over.