A bit of a sleepy, a dash to the City for lottery and cash, home after forgetting to get milk & grub, dive into the shower, shave, stuff The Barnet - it'll go all hat hair, for I be in Purple Check!
First stop - Karen's 30th!
Ah, I be the only one I know here! Where's everyone else who said they'd be attending on the BaseFuck page?
Oooh Xym - thanks for coming! Your card reading slut is stil available if you wanna! Have a sausagey roll and an onion Bhaji.
Mmmmmmmm! Thank'ee, Pretty Medieval MiLady!
Ah, card time - oh, she be running 10 mins late...
40mins later...
...oh well, now is the time one need to leave the medieval banquet.
Farewell, sweet maiden, for having availed myself of thy repast and quaffage within this tavern, one must sadly now depart for pastures anew. Verily, though thine beauty doth dazzle mine eye, one must divest oneself from indulging in maiden admiration, for one's knightly presence is required at ye court of Project, where ye minstrels Liqueur be supporting ye bards Pout at the Devil, and thus, regretfully, I must take my leave upon this early hour, for they be taking up their lyres and lutes at 9:30pm.
Or I would have said my goodbyes and best birthday wishes, if the triple-decaded lovely wasn't engrossed in quizzery and discourse with erstwhile other rabble, courtiers, jesters and the like.
And so it's off to Project, and the climbing of many, many, MANY flights of steps for overpriced drinkeries, and the discovery that the 9:30 performance is now at 10. Well, by 10, actually 11.
And with cranial plumage being hidden by hattery, The Xym is adequately disguised so that nay-one, not even those that know the legendary spectacles of starry cosmic comicallity, recognises the porker lurking in the corner!
Until the great fat fool whispers in the ears of comrades in arms, who suddenly recognise the troll-like visage hidden under the brim, as The Xym does a Jessie J and "Grab my crotch, swing my hat low like you".
However, once the beat kicks in, and the hideous deformity begins to lumber about in pranciful dancifcations in a flouncy stylee more akin to having "an eppy" under the strobe, only then do people realise who the porker in the purple pork-pie hat is!
Well, one Pretty did at least, who caught my eye (no mean feat from behind them darkened shades in a darkened club) who slung her arm around me, pulled me in, and...
...said "You're dancing Xymon! Go Xymon!".
Still, I pulled! Even if it was only being physically pulled down to Pretty level for my presence to be acknowledge by a hot pretty. And that's a result!
There's hope for me yet!*
Anyhoo, on that high, instead of traipsing down The Whatacunt for beach party, I stayed for Pout At The Devil. I must be mad - Pretties in skimpy bikinis in favour of cock rock? Ah, it was the thought of bloated fatboy beached whales in mankinis that put me off!
And then it was off home to be told by Taxi serving Wenches that the glasses are good... but the purple - bleurgh.
The miserable old trout of a troll!
And in memoriam of the sad old baggage, I watched Troll Hunter when I got in!
Now for another early morning sleepy...
* NO. THERE'S NOT.
