Where am I? I am home in Glasgow, that’s where. I have been in London for a few days doing some interesting stuff and having meetings etc…nothing too exciting but I did get to perform at Heston Blumenthal’s staff party. For the record he is the nicest man on the planet, despite cooking weird and wonderful food and soup made out of rainwater (he didn’t make that though I suggested it with a puddle pudding on the side, it may appear on the menu) he is very cool.
It looked like the worst gig on the planet, a big bunch of folk of all nationalities in a sodden tent with rain battering down and a microphone that didn’t work. The microphone stand was assembled by me out of two cricket stumps and gaffer tape! There was no stage, I stood on a plastic chair and shouted at people, and luckily I was funny. The crowd laughed at some of the info I had gleaned off the staff.
The next night Heston was presented with an award at the GQ man of the Year as best chef, so I was a guest at the party. I basically stalked Jon Hamm (the sexy bloke from Mad Men) I sneaked up behind him and sniffed his back, I gently stroked his shoulders and plucked a stray hair, I shook his hand and stared at him, willing him to take me into a cupboard and have wicked dirty sex, he merely smiled and wondered why a wee Scottish woman stared so much. I scared him. I liked that.
There were billions of celebs but that’s boring as they don’t know me and don’t want to, but Jon Hamm did look disturbed every time we locked eyes (or when I stared at him intently again). I have discovered Jedi power doesn’t exist, I tried to make him love me by staring and sending message via my wee tiny angry eyes, but I need glasses and blurred vision didn’t help.
I learned stuff, trying to get out of a big celeb filled room with Heston Blumenthal is hard. Imagine wearing a Velcro suit and trying to run through a forest made of Velcro trees all standing close together, people don’t like letting go of him. They talk for ages, want photographs and talk about food as their own food splutters out of their own mouths and land on your face, they get excited and giggly. Basically you need to be violent and clear a path with a cricket bat as you batter people aside. But that’s not how celebs behave and that’s why I will never be famous.
Leaving that room was like a famous footballer was running through a private school reunion and the girls had all turned into hookers and wanted a piece of him (that’s if you believe well educated girls become hookers and want to fuck footballers for money).
The other thing I learned is that high heels hurt more than childbirth. That room was full of women in tightly bound spiky high heels, no wonder Victoria Beckham is grumpy she has feet bound like a poor Chinese woman from the turn of the century. My feet hurt so much I cried. I fantasised about wearing flip flops and being naked with Jon Mann over the course of the whole night.
So eventually we left there and went to a club in Soho where my flip flops were waiting for me, now a black low cut dress on a fat woman who is wearing flip flops is not a good look, but still I got papped by the paparazzi outside the club fag in hand chatting to a famous person. (The photo isn’t of me, it’s of the famous man but I look mental) I look like an old cleaner in a fat frock chatting up a rich man. Yuk.
I am home and happy, sitting in my pants watching Mad Men.
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