The Faded Hotpants Of Indecision

The 100% beastly fairy of sleep deprivation has visited my pillow, plucked the restfulness from the monobrow of my being and left behind a wheezed-out, drowsy husk & a small pot of honey, for that is her traditional parting gift. Let me tell you for why.

Taking their cue from the capricious Kylie herself, the impulsive inhabitants of Stephen eloped on a Chinese donkey to the wilds of London's Hammersmith to whimsically enjoy the greasy things of legend and partake in London lunges. They flightily climbed the social stepladder to London's South Ken-Darling (or London's Off-Brompton, as I like to haphazardly dub it) to mercurially enjoy the fickle delights of London's Kylie Minogue (incorporating Victoria & Albert) Museum. It was now time to do art. Oh how they danced amongst the tatty, but spangly dresses of their youth as an unnaturally humongous Aussie midget loomed approvingly over their gyrating navels. The paucity of footwear was a disappointment at first, but was more than made up for by the chance to smell the unscented aroma of the fabled, tarnished hotpants of cheapest gold through a perspex box.

Panic set in early as our protagonists took to the narrow boulevards of London's Covent Garden. They leapt from one calamity to another as they dodged the encroaching diabetic army & Mr Krishna by darting into a hideous wine bar, cleverly disguised as a pub. Our heroes were trapped by its web of lies & indecision for a good pints worth of time, thereupon the heavens opened and they spilled out onto the soggy street for a spot of Terrance Hasselhoff shopping. They fortuitously bumped into Rufus Wainwright & his pet piano, who appeared to be wearing most of Miss Minogue's stolen, spangly wardrobe. He entertained them with song & breath until they could take no more and left them to plan their next move.

Mopatop Shop was that move, to see a kaleidoscope of skinny ties & the handiwork of "designer" Katie Melua-Moss, whip in hand, stitching her evil garments together using her own bare slaves. They took a short detour to the establishment of Messrs Hennes & Mauritz in search of Kylie cossies, but could only find insipid pink hats, and so retired to pub to enjoy Madonna's Jump and London's wrong toad in the hole.

Our infelicitous characters were presently overcome by waves of tiredness, swells of idiocy and inexplicably frightened by burlesque on stilts, so they settled on a cheap, dodgy night of live bebop at The Purple Turtle in London's Mornington Crescent. They were subjected to various substandard musical treats in the genres of 'Confused Rock' & 'Prepubescent World Psycho Pap' as they struggled to hold on to sanity (and their hearing). Ultimately it proved to be a waste of time as they were slowly, but inexorably pulled back to imbalanced normality on a cloud of lunacy, via Winchester (bastards).


Currently listening: Volta by Björk