1. WordPress.com has notified that this is some kind of milestone 150th post, so I feel like I ought to have some kind of special magical cupcake party. When I was 2, my mum made me these clown cupcakes that in retrospect were mildly terrifying, but there is a fantastic picture of me having a total bitchfest because I wanted ALL of the clown cupcakes for ME. I’m pretty sure I spent the rest of the party knocking them out of other people’s hands. Why? Because I CAN. The picture is currently in a photo album at my parent’s house but I will totally ensure they scan-and-send IMMEDIATELY because it’s fucking brilliant. So yeah. 150 posts. It doesn’t really seem megacredible except for the fact that they kinda mostly have been long rants of self-indulgent CRAY CRAY, so let the bitching continue. Wheeeeeeeee, all the way home. Can we discuss this creepy picture, for one second? What’s with all the terrified clowns and the one creepy smiling one? It’s like he’s all “oh wait, didn’t you know? I spiked that shit with PCP motherfuckers!”
2. I posted another new demo up on DOLLS’ Soundcloud Account, and thank you for listening and commenting etc. So, it seems like the demos are not (just yet) being shredded – but I understand, I need a wider audience to fucking hate me before I regain my former status of being shit talked on the internet (as opposed to just in real life which ANYONE can do). Of course I’m posting it here, too, and on the fanpages, twitter, multiple personality facebook accounts and et cetera. Pretty please, if you like it, share it. People keep asking me if it’s really embarrassing that they’re fanning out on my shit. Answer = Uh, NO, I don’t make tracks, videos, keep you all updated on all the minutia of my life so that you can keep that shit in a shoebox for your
creepy private sessions solo listening parties, so if you like it, get me a £Grillion deal already.
3. Went to The Valmont Club last night to see Richie Rich’s collection for fashion week – only, funny, he didn’t show up. After experiencing James St James for an evening a few years back I kind of anticipated this might or might not happen, but who knows what kind of fuckery happened to destroy that dream. Not that I’m making any kind of James St James call on Richie (I don’t think he’s he “Pardon me, do you have any ketamine” type) because that man is mothafuckin’ CRAY CRAY 2 the Pepsi MAX, kids. This one time we threw this party that I can’t even remember whyfor, it was something to do with WORD ON THE STREET/Writing Outside The Margins, a queer literary fest that I’m not sure is not still going. Anyway, it was called SAVE THE ROBOTS and James was in top form and super adorably sweet except when all of a sudden he was firmly gripping my hand and whispering “I.Can’t.Do.This.” very secretly, to your gossip girl right here, (XOXO) at which point he asked me and another friend to take over DJ/hosting duties which resulted in a lot of this. I don’t know why, but this also happened when Jeffree Star came to Toronto PRIDE, threw a beer bottle at a woman’s head and headed off to DJ. Who gets a call at that point but Miss “Last Minute Headliner” Awesome, who had, I believe, eaten a lot of things that day that were not of terrestrial origin, and proceeded to stumble out of a pile of champagne and other delicacies to pop on the headphones for Mr Starr, who then spilled beer (PS BEER!?) all over my fucking music. What a bitch! I had been wearing a leather vest and was dressed as a baby leatherdaddy specifically to steal his show, and the combination of 40 million degree weather and beer-covered leather made that outfit disappear and I happened to have all-access to a FANTASTIC Bovine Sex Club t-shit that was pulled out of the basement under a pile of used needles and rock-dust. Bitch knew what he was up to. Anythefuckhow, I was massively disappointed not to see Richie Rich last night and instead there was some weird frockery happening all over the place. There were one or two standout pieces from some designer I don’t recall the name of, and then there was a whole lot of ‘mother-of-the-bride-gone-awry’ mixed in with ‘floor-length-crimson-poly-cotton’ (like HOW IS THAT EVEN A THING?) which made my head have to etch-a-sketch itself with nearby champagne flutes, at which point leaving was no longer an option but a necessity for continuing to forget. Trotted back down the Fulham Road as style and grace personified, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, stumble.