Main Set
♪ Sun Ray
♪ Freesia
♪ Static
♪ Lazy Eye
♪ Island
♪ Dripping Trees
♪ Mississippi
♪ Milan
♪ Glass Cats
♪ You Cage
♪ Red Shoes
♪ Devil's Roof
♪ Green
♪ Flying
Encore
♪ Say Goodbye
♪ Shark
♪ Bright Yellow Gun
♪ Pearl
Encore #2
♪ Bea
Throwing Muses, The Whatacunt, Norwich, 21st September, support by Tanya Donelly:
♪ Mass Ave
♪ Meteor Shower
♪ Swoon
♪ Red
♪ Snow Goose And Me
♪ Medley
♪ Honeychain
♪ Slow Dawg
Remind me again why I bother...
Oh yes, because I am an awesome, caring, chivalrous top bloke...
For last night's escapades involved shouting women hoping to cop off with Teh Xym,
Not doing herself any favours though.
But whilst endearing herself to me by screeching all harpy-like at her mother, she passed out whilst sat on the table.
Toppled to the floor.
And smacked her bonce on the concrete.
But we step in to help...
...but helping two tonne Tessie to get all upright is not an easy task. Especially when one finds oneself somehow trapped in a corner compressed by comatose women.
Even worse when it briefly comes to, trying to punch everyone's lights out in a flurry of fists, before squishing me once more, and forcing my supportive embrace into inappropriate areas!
Do I:
a) Let her slide down until it appears I'm massaging her mammaries; or
b) Let her fall to the floor before accidental palm fillage with dirtypillow.
Ah,
c) Lay it on the floor before iminent boob contact, sexual harassment charge or tongue chokage (NOT MINE, I MIGHT ADD!), and let them there bouncers deal with it!
So, last week we had Cameo codpieces on Friday, Rawkus ribaldry on Sat, and drunkenly coming 4th in the pop quiz.
So what better way to recover than by doing it all again with added gayness!
Begin Fri at The Owl Sanctuary, down a couple, on to The WhatACunt for Joykiller and Liqueur, and persuaded to stay for 90s night, where Xymon is a dancer, he's a source of magic...
..who likes to move it, move it.
Then last night...
Picked up for pre-club Hulkage. Down The Owl for more, with the Jukebox and the Pool. Off to The WhatACunt once more for Britpop,,,
,,,and somehow, at the end of the night, ended up down The Loft where all the gayers go to be gat in their gayness.
Surely, Xym, a gaybar is just the same as any other bar!
So I would have thought. But when a gayer is campingly mincing in stereotypical queenery upon his exit announcing it was too gay, then there must be something worryingly wrong for a gayer to be outgayed by a gay bar.
or something.
Anyhoo, in we went...
Well, obvs Xym in all his finery got a lot of attention, and discovered that a Gayers hands wander MUCH more than Pretties down The WhatACunt in the plume of smoke machines.
And there was a triplicity of Pretties dancing near Xym, and "giving him the eye", and that barmaid from The Raving Queens Of Icini down Riverside... at least, one hopes they were Pretties, and I've not turned all tranny-fancier. Urgh!
But apart from the same-sex snoggage, and the bloatyman wrestling on the dancefloor, you'd never know it was a poofters palace. Even the music didn't give it away.
Erasure? Bronski Beat? No crass campyfied crooners here! Oh no, it's the manly butch anthems of Cher, S-Club 7, The Vengaboys, The Weathergirls and Abba.
And no-one spiked our cider with champagne, lager and Rohypnol.
Although my sister was bullied by the bouncers into putting her shoes on. Apparently, women aren't allowed to dance barefoot in The Loft. I believe their Victorian repressed beliefs are of the inclination that the sight of a bared woman's foot would ruin their hunger for cock, and instantly turn them into vagetarians.
Either that, or it's PC Health & Safety gone mad, and they can't have you getting The Gay Aids off a broken glass covered in HIV spunk on the dancefloor.
Next time, we're gonna wear flip flops to fit in as we flounce.
But not crocs.
NEVER crocs.
Main Set
♪ Burn
♪ Fascination Street
♪ Pictures Of You
♪ Lullaby
♪ Primary
♪ High
♪ A Night Like This
♪ Friday I'm In Love
♪ Just Like Heaven
♪ Inbetween Days
♪ Wrong Number
♪ Never Enough
♪ Want
♪ Disintegration
♪ Sinking
Encore
♪ Boys Don't Cry
♪ The Walk
♪ Close To Me
♪ Lovecats
♪ A Forest
Liqueur - A Tribute to The Cure, The Whatacunt, Norwich, 12th September, support by Joykiller.
Poster and revamped liqueur logo by The Xym! Ooooooh!
...in fruit stimulated orgasm.
or something.
See, we wuz out (again!) last night, and it came to the usual End Of The Night Taxi converse.
- Pretties (allegedly) Taking An Interest in an oblivious Xym
- Pretties Xym was Taking An Interest In
- Pretties Xym WOULD be Taking An Interest In if they were there
- Obvious Campanologist taking an interest in Xym's bells (Well, Campanologist as in Camp, and more interested in Xym's balls rather than bells. Creepily, dreamingly ogling me up on the dance floor and following me everywhere like a lovestruck puppy. I could understand the Gay Iconage last night, as per yesterday's blog, but I was in me normal getup - what is it that makes Pretties flee and gayboys gather?).
- The name of Xym's autobiography (Xym: A Disabstraction Of The Easily Distra... Ooooh Pretty!) ; and
- Why do I associate Fifers with potatoes?
When we taxi back, we go by Fifers Lane, drop me off, then t'others go on to Sprowston. Now, when we said Fifers Lane, It occurred to me. Potatoes. Why Potatoes?
My Sis & Taxi drivers agreed. Fifers = Potatoes. Why? We can't remember!
Googleage!
Yeah. Not simple. Pipery flutey stuffs with the odd sprinking of Fifers Lane itself, and the occasional mention of muskets, drums, and a nudie soldier* refusing to cop off with some woman coz he has no clothes to put on (said woman having to do something with her chest, not getting a response and tarting him up in her very very best vest. or something. Cross dressing tranny soldiers indeed!)
Anyhoo, talk transgressed from transgender to Trinidadian fruitery (or wherever bananas come from. The Banana Republic probably. or Sainsburys.), and how they might be Fifers. With a little blue label. And how you peel that label off the banana before peeling the peel off the banana, and it being a pointless exercise, because no-one eats banana peel, so why peel the peelable label off the peel in the first place, when you could just peel the peel off the banana replete with sticker, and lob the lot in the bin!
Preferably with the banana.
Anyhoo, it turns out than in Essex, it is a popular passtime to peel a banana and plaster it on your face. Much like the facehugger in Ridley Scott's Alien franchise.
Perhaps that's all that Aliens is. An analogy for Essex. Ridley was on a trip to Essex, and saw these drunken rowdy folks comatose in gutters with facehugging banana skins raping their drooling mouths, and wondered if the plantain penetrators were insemminating the inebriated revellers by spunking seeds down their throat and into their belly.
See, people say H.R. Geiger-Counter's design is very phallic, and the head of the Alien is just a massive cock. With teeth. Phallus Dentata, if you will. Bollocks! It's just a dirty great big fuck-off banana!
Remember that TV show - Bananas In Pjamas? Two men in costume? I think not - they're real and are the result of some ungodly hyrid that burst out of an Essex belly thanks to a rapey banana peel on a drunken Saturday night out!
* Y'AAAARRGGH! FLASHBACKS TO LAST NIGHT'S END OF PROPER GANDERAGE, AND THE BUNCH OF SLOW-WITTED FOLK WITH THE GINGER CAPERING-IN-CIRCLES DWARF WHO, UPON THE CONCLUSION OF THE SONG "I GOT SOUL, BUT I'M, NOT A SOLDIER" REFUSED TO LEAVE THE VENUE, PREFERRING TO STAND IN FRONT OF THE DJ CHANTING "I GOT SOUL, BUT I'M, NOT A SOLDIER" AD INFINITUM. ANNOYINGLY SO. MORE ANNOYINGLY BECAUSE OF THE FUCKING ANNOYING PHRASE "I GOT SOUL, BUT I'M, NOT A SOLDIER". FUCK OFF! FUCK RIGHT OFF! LIKE THAT DUMB GINGER DWARF THICKO - IT'S NOT BIG AND IT'S NOT CLEVER. MIGHT A WELL SAY I GOT TOAST, BUT I'M NOT A TOASTER! I GOT FIRE, BUT I'M NOT A FIREPLACE. I GOT HEART, BUT I'M NOT A HEART RATE MONITOR. SOUL AND SOLDIER LYRICS MY BEST HAT! THAT SAID, ONE SUPPOSED ONE SHOULD FORGIVE THE "STRAWBERRY BLONDE" PERSON OF DIMINUTIVE STATURE, FOR AS THAT FAMOUS YOUTUBE ANGRY GINGER RANTER SAID: "GINGERS HAVE SOULS TOO!"
BUT HE'S OBVIOUSLY NOT A SOLDIER, BEING TOO SMALL TO MEET THE BURLY SOLDIERMAN TYPE. UNLESS THERE IS AN ELITE MILITIA OF MIDGET MUNCHKINS PUTTING THE WIND UP THE TERRORISTS BY PERFORMING WILLY WANKER AND HIS CHOCOLATE STARFISH OOMPA-LOOMPA SONGS BEFORE SLIPPING UP A JYHADDYWADDY DJBELLA AND BITING A BEHEADERS BELLEND OFF.
I keep my promises!
I promised to dress up like Cameo for 80s night.
I dressed up like Cameo from 80s night,
Unfortunately, I appear to look a million times gayer than Cameo!
"Ooooh, you'll rouse a lot of Pretties interest tonight Xym!Why, they won't be able to tear their eyes away from your genital adornment!"
Did I get rouse a lot of Pretties interest?
Did I feck as like :(. No. What I appear to have roused is the slumbering soldiers of men who prefer to their gardening upon a plane that has a degree of declinated anglature upon it.
Yes, once again, instead of lovely ladies, it's Men Who Prefer To Smoke Another Gentleman's Personal Pipe who are in adoration of The Xym. Word Up? No, it's a Cock Up they're after, and it's my ass they want to ensconce it within! Run, Forrest Xym, Run!
Mind you, in such a getup, I really should have expected it. Combine the look, with my labia lubricating gyratory manoeuvres as I rhythmically strut my svelte self on the dance floor... well, who could resist!
So feast your eyes ladies - this is the first, last and only time you'll see me like this. Skin tight pvc leggings, bare arms with upper chest exposure... please, don't have nightmares! (Have sexy dreams of this sexy hunk sexing you. or something)
And I wonder why people think I'm a raving queen, old, obscene, only 17 (stone). or something.
Oh my Christ...
I did it.
Marc Almond meets Larry Black Man.
Full story tomorrow.
Assuming I'm not twatted over betwixt home & bus stop, on the bus, loitering on Castle Meadow, or in The Wildman/Owl Sanctuary/WhatACunt.
I look fucking AWESOME, and some people ain't gonna like it!
Make way people, Xym's making an ENTRANCE!
And he will entrance you.
Well, something will...
There's a popliar MEME of that SimpsonyFuturamaryFamilyguyary bloke waving wads of cash about shouting "Shut Up And Take My Money!"
I can't even give money away, me!
And today is the final insult!
So, recently a few friends have been somewhat strapped for cash. I had a tax rebate off my redundancy. I offered to help some people out. People won't accept the help.
But then one of my Prettiest Ultimate Pretties saw a dress she was after. A mighty fine dress reduced in a sale. A dress ideal for her, but she had no monies. So I offered to get for her as a belated birthday present.
And once more, I was not allowed to lavish my cash on a lovely lady!
And it wasn't even a pervy dress, like a French Maids outfit or anything! A gorgeous, sensible dress she'd look absolutely stunning in!
Now, everyone knows how useless Xym is with Teh Pretties - I thought it was bad enough before, but oh, the shame and embarassment.
I can't even get a woman into a dress, let alone out of one...
Oh woe and wail and misery!
It's deffo the hat.
The hat that inspires twats to be like that
Now, you know the trouble I used to get into down The WhatACunt whenever I wore a hat.
Hassle hassle hassle off fighty gayboy chavscum wanting to duff me up.
Well, on Sat, one of my compadrés wore a hat similar to mine, The big black hat with the phenomenally huge plumage with the skeletal centerpiece and gogglery.
And he recieved a summary punch to the gob.
One can only assume that the pissed up pugilist mistook my erstwhile compatriot for me, and tried to give him a kicking, under the misapprehension that he was me, and was after me for a previous millinery-based altercation in the past.
Or it could be that the cranial adorned one took the wanker to task for waving his wang about and widdling under a street light, like a micturating faun by the Narnian gateway to Spare-Oom. An illuminated plonker proudly presenting his pissing penis to the passing public, and took exception to someone requesting the cessation of this cesspitiful display of public pubic indencency.
But I do rather expect that my friend "took one for the team" and recieved the blow due to mistaken identity due to hattage, for many people thought he was me, and were most disappointed not to find me below my unmistakeable hat, seemingly no longer unmistakeable.
