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I suppose I could chalk it up to the impending excitement and overall anticipation preambling the diamond jubilee of HRH Queen Elizabeth II, coming off the Madonna Superbowl and the first (hopefully last) snowfall in London all winter, but I found myself lodged in a cycle of spontaneous destruction over the past few days. Luckily there were photos taken.

Following coming up on the radars of East London (a momentary blip) last Thursday, I headed back into the land of reason and sensible things (aka Central London) and met with a jewelry designer with whom I began planning a collection I’ve had in the works. Get ready to be surprised, or in some cases, not-so-surprised when details are finalized and molds are cast for manufacturing – we’re looking at silver, gold and rose gold for some gorgeous little off-the-wall (and off-the-chain) accessories that  will make your BFF seethe with jealousy when she realizes they ain’t break-apart and she doesn’t get to keep half. More on this as contracts are signed and swoons are sighed et cetera.

 What should one probably avoid doing at midnight on a Thursday?  I for one would advise against showing up in the lobby of the BBC, attempting to reclaim a snowglobe from Helsinki from a journalist giving you the runaround, pretending he has silly things like ‘making up news stories’ to attend to.  Also, if you’ve realized you’ve forgotten this handy advice, do not begin taking photos of the ticker as Don Cornelius headlines fly by with the Dow Jones and the FTSE.  Why?  Oh, because security will show up and make a big fuss about it, at which point you’ll have to explain what it is you’re doing there, and that you’re simply trying to get a photo of Don Cornelius’ name on the ticker for your twitter account.  And then, because it’s England you’ll have to explain Don Cornelius to a very confused looking pair of security guards who wear the ‘Oh, Great, Another One’ expression.  You’ll have to do an impression, too, in the lobby of the BBC, of the ‘Souuuuuulllll Trainnnnnnnnn’ soundbyte that made him at all recognizable to the security guards, who get very fed up and are about to ask you to leave and you remind them that it’s Black History Month, which is very surprising to them, as it’s Black History Month in October in England.  That’s when your journo friend comes into the lobby and has to fill out a badge so you can try not to get stuck in the slow-moving robotic revolving door.

On your way in, definitely no not try and perversely touch a Dalek. Do not, also, split your lip trying to kiss one. However, if you’ve come this far, then it’s fine to take fashion photography with the blood. Involve a Vietnam war helmet wherever possible.

Play all the chess you want and be all intellectual, but when it turns out you’ve run out of things to drink, steer well clear of that bottle of Sake. It’s not to be mixed with Coca-Cola. It will make you feel as though the fairy liquid logo has broken into your soul as you fetal it out (like ‘feel it out’, but more horrifying like rebirth into a hellish alternate reality comprised of freezingness and acid reflux) on the couch. Look especially attractive to workmen coming over to remove a dishwasher at a truly unrealistic time in the day (which is pretty much any time ever following Sake and Coke), because they totally fancy a grey complexion that matches the walls in the ‘Wait a minute, it wasn’t so bachelory in here last night…’ flat. You look fucking fantastic in those wet look leggings that leave little to the imagination, though.

When averting your eyes from the scene of the crime and making a break for it (with your snowglobe still intact one hopes – whether it is a metaphoric or literal snowglobe at this point), do ensure you’re wearing the most scandalous, walk-of-shame outfit as one can possibly wear (or walk-of-same, as you did wear this in the daytime yesterday and it was no big deal in Central), and that you are walking through MummyDaddiesville so everybody slows down to take it in.

At this point it is IMPERATIVE that your 5 inch stilettos maintain your full attention as you sashay down the high street. Don’t pay any attention to the stares and wolf whistles from the traffic slowing as it passes you. Until you completely cause a Mercedes Benz to crash into a BT (or equivalent) work-van. At that point, make the international sign for “YESSSSS” as made famous by Kevin McAllister in Home Alone. 

Congratulations, you are now ready to take on the world and all it has to offer, and your engine has been primed for the diamond jubilee celebrations. Send messages to the Queen congratulating her on her reign, and try to get them published by Buckingham Palace. Don’t resist the temptation to flatter your way into the OBE you never earned, but you earned, you know?

All this living don’t come for free, who knows that better than a Monarch with 60 years under her belt? Presumably, she’s proud and wants my phone number because I’m an inspiration to her, like in my dream the other night (this happened right after Prince Harry was to use an inverted Washington Monument to dig his own grave – analysis please?) then I’ll BFF my way into OBE like WTF.

Video by JDRW5

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