Have just come back from an appointment. The glad tidings being that I was asked: “Who is leading this meeting? You or me?” I didn’t say that anyone having to ask that question surely must know the answer. I smiled and put myself on a leash.
Greetings to the arsehole hacking my email account.
Just fuck off, will you? It’s cheap and it will get you nowhere. No, this is not paranoia speaking. That someone is hacking me has just been confirmed by my internet provider itself.
Do not worry, have no fear: I work from more than one account. And if you don’t have anything better to do with your life than spy on other people and, once again, twice in a fortnight, wasting hours of my time trying to retrieve what is, partly, precious to me you should go and find a hut in the woods and become a recluse. Go and collect herbs. Dry them. Sniff them. Wear one of those scratchy shirts and your soles down.
Leave it. No one messes with me. And that’s a promise.
Since we hit the bottle in more ways than one in my last post we might as well continue in the same puddle (not least to torture teetotallers and those currently fasting for their sins):
Apart from a Martini and anything involving champagne (say, a Bellini) I believe cocktails to be the devil’s invention. Too many overtones of fruit (which makes you careless), too much high spirited alcohol (which makes you refuse breakfast the next day). Once only (Puerto Banus, Marbella, South of Spain, Europe, Planet Earth, ca. 1985), four of them innocently imbibed, and never again.
However, my beloved GG (Gay Guy) – and he does know what he does when he shakes and stirs – did create THE URSULA for me (New Year’s Eve 2005). Here follows his concoction, and please do offer your own blends as you see fit:
1 part Frangelico, 1 part Tia Maria, 5 parts Champagne
Stir gently in lovely container. Pour for a soul satisfying evening of blissful intellectual stimulation. The perfect blend of sweetness and sophistication.
For himself he devised THE GG:
1 part Pernod , 2 parts Absinthe, 1 part Vodka
Serve over completely cracked ice. Prepare for immediate nausea.
The romance of it. Don’t you love a grand gesture, even if it’s only a small one?
Since his mother is Irish I’ll dedicate this post to her. Sign outside a tavern:
“Drunk for 1d. Dead drunk for 2d. Clean straw for nothing.”
Sweethearts, please don’t feel neglected. I will answer all of you and do whatever gladly. For the moment a more pressing thing has been drawn to my attention:
I AM A LEG. Yes, really. Why this had not occurred to me before I do not know. Though I have always known what the Red Carpet at the Golden Globes has proven: Fuck with your face and botox till you look like what’s her name evil twin sister, up your boobs till they resemble balloons so tight you want to prick them, muscle up your arms like the only woman I detest (yes, Madonna, you whore): The one thing you cannot fake are your legs. Such satisfaction. As such I am a leg. I too cannot be faked. What you see is what you get. Unless you turn off the lights first.
Now before the likes of Tom aka Hippo and John aka Chicken Coop get carried away, or please do: I have always upheld, from the first time I had to uncork an obstinate wine bottle, that a woman’s strength lies between her thighs (for the dense: A man’s [strength] lies in his upper arms). Rather a pity that so many wines now come with screw tops. You can’t unscrew a bottle with your thighs. Maybe knees better suited. Anyway, for the uninitiated among my young female readership: What you do is you lower your ordinary garden variety cork screw into the cork. You then place bottle between your legs and PULL. Yes, upper thighs making an amazing clamp. Also proving my beloved law of physics: That of the longer lever.