Saturday was a day-trip to Brighton for a BBQ alongside more fine bloggers: Anna Boat, Mike Diva, Meg, Petite, Andre and JonnyB. What a splendid lot they are. Even if they did accuse me of wearing a coat that made me look like a prostitute. (It was fake-fur, darlings; I’m an ethical as well as a classy-looking ‘ho, obviously.)
I then dashed back to London to catch up with an old mate from college, and spent the evening pondering women (“unpredictable psychos” according to him) and men (“unreliable bastards” according to me). We drank far too much alcohol and then drunkenly stumbled about in a Maximo Park gig. (Cute boys playing brilliant tunes on loud guitars: my idea of heaven.)
In a little while I’m off to see another college friend who’s generously agreed to let me indulge my rampant sci-fi/thriller desires with him... by accompanying me to watch 28 Weeks Later. Death, terrifying zombies and London as an urban dystopia, all underpinned with a political subtext? Yes please. (I might have to grab his hand at the scary bits; the fact he has lovely, large, manly fingers has nothing to do with it, I tell you.)
An almost perfect weekend, I think. Almost: If it also included my ripping off Paul Smith’s tight sexy trousers (and my own knickers) and then sitting on his lap and riding him all night long, then it would be the best weekend ever. (Who do I have to shag around here to get a backstage pass, hmm?*)
UPDATE: Fuck me, that was a damn fine movie. Wow...