Tease Me, Tease Me, Tease Me, Tease Me, Tease Me, Tease Me, Tease Me, Tease Me, Tease Me, Tease Me, Tease Me, Tease Me (Baby)

Like a Hansdieter-Heinrich on Going For Gold, my sweaty fingers absent mindedly rubbing the metallic mushroom's helmet whilst a leprechaun-sized Henry Kelly clings to my lobes, screaming that I'm now playing catch up; I'm falling a little behind on my obsessive documenting of the events of the year thus far. Each lazy moment teases the unwilling thoughts from my mind and squirrels them off to the hazy fug of memory hell, no matter how often Bo-face demands an account of the sexiest of Sundays. What follows will be as disjointed and unintelligible to me as it is to you.

Up to the old cinema for a dose of salty sea-dogs and a smattering of wrongly applied dreadlocks. A detour though London's Trouser-Congestion Charge Zone. The swim-suited vermin hold a large, indoor busker hostage. As much as wee-wee would like, money refuses to part with a chugger-snubbing wallet, the ransom goes unpaid, it is engaged elsewhere. Twenty minutes of moustachioed, smirky-dancing follows.

After being repeatedly informed that we were unable to get a magazine, such as 'Fabulous', to reveal details of Mr Z's "love", the joy is at an end and the search begins for under-aged, smokey fun. The mole hole fills with legs. Neck strain is OK, but under-priced beer is better. Press Your buttons... now!


Currently listening: Rufus Does Judy At Carnegie Hall by Rufus Wainwright