Friday, December 24, 2004



Another swig of cloying Malibu from the bottle: the only thing I could get my hands on in the house and besides, I'm reluctant to pay Christmas Eve party prices.

My frock was in the Miss Selfridge sale and I severely have my doubts. Now spend 5 minutes frantically removing those fucking big shoulder pads which they seem to put into all tops, jackets etc., so that you look as if you are about to play ice hockey rather than go for a night on the town. More gelspray, more hairspray, douse myself in heavy '80's perfume (Poison rip-off from Brownhills market, £2.19). Room now needs to be sealed off by police - breathing in means you risk annihilation.

Getting off bus, I'm already pissed which is a good thing as I am oblivious to the crowds who are uptown, back home, not used to much drink and ready to glass someone even if it is quite early yet.

Stand in club queue in subzero temperatures for about 3 days or something. Entrance price about 500 per cent increase on normal charges. It takes several more days to get some watered down Corona pop from the bar (charge - £6.50 per drink).

Can't remember much else. Music included Luther Vandross and a Black Lace medley. Was chatted up by a dogbreathed Karl Malden lookalike. Managed to find way onto nightbus by some miracle - must have inner resources I just don't understand. Bus full of psychotic men in early to late middle age trying to murder each other, as usual.

Being as old as the hills has lots of good points. For one, it means that I will never have to go through anything like the above ever again.

I am quite possibly about to burst with smugness now.

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