Bloody hell. It's Friday already.
So, Jade Goody anyone?
No, I think I'll pass. I really can't be bothered to join the debate. She's not worth the effort, stupid cow.
It's been a quiet week here at OMO Towers, apart from being blown about yesterday. Two of the girls at work were injured in their lunch break by a falling "To Let" sign and ended up in A&E.
Personally I quite like it windy. It makes my big coat blow out behind me like a cape, and I run along feeling very "Heathcliffe". Oh, ok, "Cathy". I did try to get The Boyf to go out and get lost on the moors last night, returning some days later and dying of consumption, but he refused. For one, there aren't alot of moors in central London, and secondly he didn't want to pander to my gothic romanticism. Having me standing outside the bedroom window, banging on it and wailing all night was quite enough for him. It was quite enough for me too; I got quite a chill up my bustle. We've decided to sleep with a Moor this weekend tho, to make up it. If we can find one anyway. They seem quite thin on the ground these days.
Tonight starts the month long celebration that is The Drag Queen's birthday. I won't tell you how old she'll be, not because it's rude to say a lady's age - frankly, she ain't no lady - but simply because I can't remember. Her birthday is next Tuesday, but this weekend we'll be joining her in various bars and clubs, starting with BarCodeV and then A:M at Fire tonight. So if you happen to see a girl covered in glitter, a guy singing "Wuthering Heights" in white chiffon, and two big, hairy tattooed bodybuilders that'll be us. And if you look vaguely Moorish and some guy's trying to hump your leg, that'll be The Boyf. Say hi and we'll buy you a beer. Perhaps you could be Heathcliffe to my Cathy, who knows...
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