Right. OK. We went on a rip mongling mangle shnoogling fong shmankling fooge snippler piss rattler last night at the trusty dear old Jolly Rogeraroonie, as promised by my Midweek Madness ramble.
Three suitcases and five, six fucking god knows what later, The Ant, L2, C, R, E2, Doc, Klo, Forbsie, the whole crew basically, had a rong shmongling gripper snookler of an evening, which actually ended quite tamely at this little dodgy bar in Parkhurst.
We smashed pizzas all over the show as well. Which is pretty lucky, considering.
An interesting conclusion of the evening was:
On Friday, we’re going on a graunchathon at Manhattan. Oh yes. We’ve placed bets and everything. We’re pulling our way through the club like ho’s in downtown Reno pull themselves through their next paycheck, in a flip-bongling smoochathon. This however, as more drinks were consumed, no smashed, in our faces, turned into a, ‘no, we’re actually going on a shtoinkathon.’ We’re going on a poennathon. We’re going on a boofathon. Squeeze bummathon. Face suckathon. Then tried to act all coy when a group of guys overheard the conversation, and said ‘no actually we’re going on a hold handsathon.’
Quote from one of us sophisticated ladies: "I'll snog anything that bumps into me with it's mouth open." God I love my mates. Call a spade a spade, I say.
Then we left. At midnight. And I arrived home to The Ant smearing amniotic fluid all over her face, or what could only be, when actually it was a face mask, but it looked like someone had just given birth to her, when actually obviously they hadn’t, but I still got one helluva fright (evidenced by guttural shriek) and thought an alien from beyond the Milky Way had sneezed on her face.
Then we had a heated debate on who is better in the sack: Ities or Franco’s, like myself.
Franco’s of course, but she reckons not, Ities, and she thinks I want to be Itie, but I don’t, and she’s just saying that because she wants to be half French like me.
Vasco, aka Third Roommate pulled up in a black Audi A3, 2 litre turbo, drop suspension, sunroof, rims, the whole shebang, and we pretty much poenned our way through the streets of Illovo and environs, driving like assholes, just because we could. Overtaking, taking off in a ploom of smoke, going round corners on two wheels, and it is very possibly the most orgasmic car I have ever driven in, in my life. (He borrowed it from a colleague especially to take me for a spin – bless his Portuguese jocks.) We sat on the pavement admiring the car and no doubtedly wanting to shag the car because it is just so beautiful.
Don’t care what anyone says, but it was agreed that we are better people when we’re driving around in a black, drop suspensioned, 2 litre A3 turbo. And maybe we’re pricks when we drive, but then we have allowance to drive like that, and bloody hell, for God’s sake, it’s a beautiful bloody vehicle, and God wouldn’t have commissioned these such automobiles from Heaven if nobody felt like a mini-God behind the wheel.
Bring on Friday’s grabbathon. It’s going to be so messy, I’m almost scared to go out. But not quite. I mean, really, come on.
PS: On the dismantling of the Virgin Mobile ice rink at Madiba Square: this sucks balls. What am I to do with my Sunday nights, Richard Branson? Seriously, you've screwed my weekends up for me now. I was planning on becoming Nancy Kerrigan by the end of the year - why'd you have to go tear it down? I'm there EVERY WEEK, Richard, EVERY WEEK. Sometimes twice a week. I know your staff there on a first name thing. They know I'm the bird with the funny backpack. I'm very upset by this.