Helsy wants me to put something nice on here about her as she thinks she always gets a bad press.

Ok, she dressed up as Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters 2 last night and was the coolest person on the dancefloor.

She also told me to put that I am a cunt. Which I am I suppose. Sometimes.

Just one word - vile.

Why is it that at every fucking party we go to we are always the most outrageous and also the last ones standing even though we don't usually do any drugs? It's scary.

Helen and I were up for 25 hours yesterday and I am feeling it now although I've been napping all day.

There were some very wierd people there last night - Spent most of the night talking to a tranny who told me his relationship was dead and he was completely trapped. Felt bad for him and also his girlfriend who was sat quite near us at the time. Then I chatted to the most depressing man on earth, this guy called Rory - a clinical psychologist who told me he harboured absolutely no compassion for humanity. I nearly cried at that point so I stumbled off to dance.

About 9am, we all went for breakfast in my favourite greasy spoon in Vauxhall (thanks Hels). After that we got the tube home and Helen told a little kid that rats had eaten her feet and that's why they were bleeding.

God, have got the giggles. I can tell tonight is going to be very silly indeed.

Just spoke to Richie on messenger and his "shit bat" costume consists of a broken umbrella attached to a t-shirt which Jude has made for him.

Considering my "shit corpse bride" costume consists mainly of a crumpled nightie which I wore to bed last night with a corset over the top, awful gothic makeup and burning man wedding veil which is really a skirt, we are going to look pretty fuckin ridiculous walking through the rain soaked streets of King's Cross. Can't wait.

It is not my most creative costuming effort but to be fair I had to quickly throw something together before work as well as doing the hoovering, hence the crumpled nightclothes and burning man remnants. I am sure that the party host (Gaz) will be pleased with how much effort we have gone to...

This is ridiculous. I am sat here doing the following, all simultaneously -

Updating my blog.

Having 2 text conversations, both unrelatedly regarding some sort of costuming, strangely.

Emailing three burners.

Chatting on messenger to two people, one of whom is the ex. (Whaa)

Is communication technology overload. I must stop. The stupidest thing is that I am getting paid for it. What a joke. That's what box office staff are supposed to do though right?

Going to an 80sphantasmagoricalhorror party in West Hampstead tonight....looking forward to it as have not been out all week...Right, feeling twitchy and distracted so must close all windows and stop...

Bugger.

I am walking the 6 miles to and from work at the moment as my overdraft is at 1,750 and I have no money for the bus. (Cue first violin) So, anyway right, I was walking home along the canal this evening, quietly contemplating an night in alone and hungry as the whole house has gone out for a meal which I cannot afford(cue second violin) when I got stung twice in the throat by a very late wasp(cue viola) to which I am allergic (cue cello).

And there you have it, a string quartet poised to serenade my tale with Pachelbel's Canon or something equally befitting. Maybe the Verve.

However, I am grateful for the following -

• The wasp did not get my windpipe or I would not be here typing this now, I would be down A&E for a tracheotomy. The swelling is alright actually.
• It is not raining
• I am not living in Pakistan
• I have a job to walk to and from
• I have discovered fresh Begby material in a Vox and Roll compilation which I bought for 25p. His family Christmas - fucking hilarious, thanks Irv.
• There are no wasps in the desert

Now am off to wash down some anti-histamine with scotch

Yay! Helsy's back from Egypt! She stayed in a place where there was only mountains and desert *sigh*. She also made friends with a bedouin and drank tea in his tent. He told her that she was a camel (this is wrong as I know that she is an ostrich, that is obvious to any fucker) and that he was a puma. Never trust a person with a self professed sexy totem animal.

I am bored in the box office at the moment and can't be arsed to write any more narrative about my life, so here are some fragments in the form of quotes.....

"I said smack not spack" - Yours truly providing motivation during Pete Doherty inspired photo shoot

"Come over. I've got a gun and I'll rub my camel vapours on your horny thighs" - Hels to prospective new boyfriend.

"I'm going to hit you." - WankManager to me during shift.

" I bleed liquid gold and slur speech in a cryptic code, my feet slipping on this twisted road, only the mystic knows the lone figure in the distance "- The urban poet himself.

"Fuck you Corduroy! You might have the fuckin acid jazz intellectual fuckin conversation and the fuckin groupies but I've just nicked all your beer." - Matt from Wales

"There's a fine line between sanity and insanity and I snorted it in 1969." - Kinky Friedman

"Tell Lorna I want my fucking hanky back, it belongs to my dead girlfriend." - Little Chris in Bedrock on Friday night.

"Make your mind blank, wank in your fishtank." Skrimshank (Can't stop playing it, funny as fuck, as good as the Streets easy)

"I'm off to pour petrol around the fire exits" Tonight's Duty Manager at the theatre.

"I'm going to go as a shit bat" Richie on costuming for Halloween.

"Are you still in bed you dirty fucking slut?" Michael to me on phone.

"If you look at the shiny tiles you can see right into the toilet cubicle" - A colleague.

Thats enough quotage for one day...

Today I learnt a little bit about vikings in my lunch break.

Was quite interested to read about the fierce Besrkr warriors who often went into battle unarmoured and worked themselves into a wild frenzy beforehand. Theoretical reasons for the famed frenzy range from totemism to consumption of fly agarics or alcohol.

Beserkr blood still flows strongly through the veins of UK viking descendants. In town centres up and down the country of a Sat'dy night, young men become unknowingly possessed by the spirits of bears and wolves after consuming ten pints of Guinness and bite each other's ears off before smashing a breezeblock through the window of Kwiksave. I have seen it many times....it is our cultural heritage.

The rest of the weekend fairly flew by in a haze of alcohol and giggles.

Robin's party was a strange sight. A scummy warehouse blasting out Drum n bass, filled to the rafters with odd, mostly wizened festival crew and every single one of the fuckers had a big yellow balloon jammed between their lips at all times. Dirty nitrous heads. I love 'em. Boo and I declined although it was all free.

I made a new friend called Matt-from-Wales. We bonded over our similar South Wales upbringing and had a story based competition named "How Fuckin' Common Are You?" I won by virtue of the following facts -

1) We never had a kitchen table and used to eat our evening meal off newspapers on the floor every night

2) We had a caravan in our driveway filled with inbred rabbits as well as gerbils, cats, dogs and cockatiels roaming freely round the house

3) We never had wrapping paper at Christmas and used to get our presents in black plastic bin-liners.

I don't think he quite believed me but it's all true.

Boo scored quite highly as well, on account of the fact that she had a tin bath which had to be filled with saucepans of hot water until she was fifteen.

On Sunday me and Boo went to Michael's for lunch. He was on top form; calling us bitches the minute we arrived, fluttering in and out of the kitchen with a great deal of drama, slagging off his neighbours and showing us his holiday snaps which mainly consisted of random shots of young Spanish boys. He even had a picture of the ex (mine) on his PC. Well, honestly. They only met once.

Going to bed now. I haven't slept for three days and started my project management contract this morning. It was fine, but I think I will have to lead a double life for 6 months as all my new colleagues are so fucking nice and normal it's unreal.

Over and out.

Got pissed,went to Bedrock,danced like a loon,pulled two feathercuts,took one home,kept him in my bed all day today, kissed him goodbye, slept for an hour,ate some fishfingers peas and mashed potato,had a shower,got on the tube,came to work.

And here I sit, waiting for the show to go up so I can close the Box Office, go out and do it all again tonight.

I fucking love being single.

Just spoke to Festival Rich on the phone. Gave him some inspiration and ideas from the Burn and to say thank you he is treating me to champagne tomorrow night at Robin's party down Brick Lane. Yay!

Haven't seen them lot since the ephedrine & amyl fuelled days of the early summer festies. Bleugh. Makes me heave just thinking about it. Getting paid to dance on a chair in a field is a great idea in theory but fucking hard work in practice.

Rich is gutted that me and Hels are not gonna be around next season but I think Guatemala will be much better for our overall health...

I have just checked back on my blog and June-August has one entry describing the first festival of the season. After that I was clearly too fucked to write anything at all. So here are some highlights from last season which I will never repeat (honest guv):

Lying in a tent at dawn, trying to calm an irregular, racing heartbeat, listening to 300 angry scots storm the main arena fence and smash up the lighting rigs whilst wondering vaguely if I should go and protect the stock. I love the scots.

Gatecrashing an after hours rave run by the festival mafia, grabbing the mic off the MC and proclaiming over the sound system that he is "shit as fuck" and "wearing a tea towel". He was too.

Doing a 20 hour shift with no breaks whatsoever in a victorian corset. Owch.

Getting flooded at 5am, abandoning tent and spending the morning with the New Age Travellers, learning how to weld after much whisky. Loved it.

Falling asleep standing up in the Lost Vagueness whisky bar.

Doing ten MADAs and four Yellow Cabs in 5 hours. Gross. Carla Parr I blame you for that one.

Falling in love with festival Dave whilst on e and scaring him so much he didn't speak to me for the rest of the season.

Standing on my own, knee deep in mud, cold & wet watching the White Stripes and crying thinking everyone else was having fun when in fact they were all standing on their own, knee deep in mud, cold and wet & having a shit time.

Pulling the little brother of a major celebrity (I didn't know until after) and taking their virginity(I did have an idea).

Freaking out e-tarded punters by speaking a special and nonsensical language when we wanted them all to fuck off. One of them actually cried.

Just one word - Balloons.

Ugh.

Yes, Guatemala is a much safer option.

Oops. Was two hours late for my shitty temp waitressing job this morning. Rising at 4.45 am to pour coffee for conference goers? I don't think so... Wankmanager didn't tell me off though and the rest of the day went ok. I must not be that late again tomorrow. Mustn't.

Rule number 2 in Job Blaggery - Always make friends with the chef immediately. This will ensure that you can spend the day in the kitchen eating gourmet food in manner of a piglet. The chef will also protect you from wankmanagers.

I have to go now, have to get up in two minutes. (Ode to Carla Parr.)

A strange and moving weekend.

The Mother creature took me to see Tibet: A Buddhist Trilogy, as it fits in with her current studies. The footage in these films is fucking hardcore and should carry a health warning along the lines of "Do not view unless you want to spend the next nine hours engaged in deep discussion peppered with random bouts of tears or cultivate an uncomfortable mental state bordering on despair." It would probably have been ok if it weren't for the recent prevalence of mizzogs/darkness in my mind. I am glad that we shared that experience though. However, this blog is meant to be a light and entertaining journal so I shall stop there...

Apart from that we went to see Banksy's show, which was everything provocative art should be, though the stench from the rats was pretty overpowering. The Mother Creature stayed outside, claiming she could see all the paintings through the window well enough. Also went to see Rachel Whiteread's Embankment at Tate Modern which was everything provocative art shouldn't be. Hels and I got told off for climbing on it. Bollocks.

We also spent a few hours wandering round the colonial hangover that is the British Museum. I'm not very good with artifacts taken out of context.

After the psychological strain of Saturday, decided that Sunday should be a day of pure play. Kissed goodbye to the Mother Creature at Paddington (hurts every time) and then went and tried on wigs in Selfridges with Helen. Walking down Oxford Street we encountered some strange people painted green, breakdancing and playing penny whistles, which I liked very much. Also, chatted to a Hare Krishna follower who proclaimed that Hinduism is a gross perversion of his beliefs and then tried to blag 2 quid off us. Hmmm. After bewigged japes, we went swimming in the outdoor pool at Oasis with Richie. Cold but fun, until I got propositioned by an extremely predatory old lesbian in the changing rooms.

Hels has gone to Egypt this morning. I hope she has fun and stays safe. Managed to talk her out of her "crossing the border into Israel in a Burkha" idea late last night as she was packing.

Worked an 11 hour shift yesterday as it was opening night at the Players. Needless to say; the box office crashed and we had to go to a manual booking system, the pyrotechnics fucked up, the ushers didn't turn up for work and the fire alarm kept going off randomly, triggering evacuation. I was in my element.

The techie kept coming into the office and saying things like "The pomfrets are out which means that the curly sprocket won't work. We may have to rely on the loop but that means we can't utilise the genesis system." To which I'd reply "Ok, I'm going to call an electrician." I have no fucking idea what language techies speak but it's not one I've come across before. He didn't seem to clock on to my incompetence though, so that's alright. Rule number one in job blaggery: Never, ever look nonplussed.

Not sure exactly what the play's about (it's a musical so I didn't watch it, obviously), but from backstage it seemed to involve lots of pretty boys in jodphurs and riding boots and one particularly fine specimen in a velvet cape. Mmmm.

Theatre work is quite fun.

I got the job motherfuckers! Hoorah! This means I will once again be working with artists and the like. Also, as it is only a six month project management contract I can fuck off come spring time without feeling guilty. I knew it was in the bag when the "second interview" consisted of prospective bosses taking me out for chocolate cake.

Quite excited by that, and the fact that I am going to Banksy's new exhibition this weekend. He's started working in oil and I can't wait to see the results. However, he's also started breeding rats especially for this show, the idea being that punters will have to negotiate a floor teeming with the little fuckers to get to the paintings. The mother creature is not that happy with the plan as she's worried she might scream, but the girls are as excited as I am. I think it'll be funny.

Going gay speed-dating tonight with Richie. His chances of pulling are zilch as there's nothing more off-putting than a sniggering fag-hag hovering about. Should be fun though and possibly free drinks will be given.

I know I said I wouldn't but am fucking skint : Worked as a waitress at a corporate event in Slough last night. It was ok actually. The twat of a manager only shouted at me three times (think David Brent with a vicious streak - awful) and no punters pinched my arse. Tough on the feet though. Think I will carry on with that till my new job starts, but not doing any Bunny Girl crap.

Right, better go. Am going to do something worthwhile today like go to Lidls. Hmmm.

NB, Please note I have made no mention of parks, joggers, pigeons, ducks or indeed Damon Albarn in this entry.

Over the last few days, have been mainly doing the following -

Playing orange peel Jenga.

Leading pedalo revolutions on Battersea park lake.

Dreaming about vampires. (Manifestation of Ian Mckewan's Black Dogs - possibly not the most settling of bedtime reads.)

Consuming pies and pints in a Chelsea pub. How quintessentially English.

Walking about the canals.

Speaking to the mother creature on the phone.

Listening to urban poetry as outlined in the last entry.

Reading Blake - again.

Feeding the ducks in Victoria Park in the freakishly warm weather with Luce & Grace - again.

Contemplating change.

Contemplating God.

Making Burning man costumes.

Finishing Burning Man scrapbook.

Playing grime badminton.

Planning an adventure in Sherwood Forest for the last weekend in January.

Trying to deal with my unnecessary prejudice against rich people.

The mother creature is coming to stay this weekend and has demanded culture so I'm taking her to see Nobuyoshi Araki's exhibition at the Barbican and also the Persia exhibition at the British Museum. I can't wait to see her. It's been 3 months or so.

Randomly bumped into the ex in Leicester square on Sunday morning. I was not prepared for this at all as I thought he was still in Barcelona. Also, out of 7 million people what are the chances? Anyway, it was ok. Quite civilised and we chatted almost like old friends. It's odd how things progress.

This is the man that has, in the past, screamed insults at me which include the fabulous and original "Degenerate Ho". However, I am grateful for this, as it is my favourite insult ever and is not, to be fair to him, completely unfounded. I do sometimes behave like a Degenerate Ho, and why the fuck not?

There is a lesson to be learnt here and that is - Degenerate Ho types should not have long term relationships with muslims. When value systems are that far apart it's doomed to fail, however much you love each other.

I drink black rain,
Take another swig and I'm drunk,
Taste venom on the tip of my tongue,
My lips cold.
Spitting out toxins I couldn't dissolve,
Or withhold.
But I never sold my soul for fools gold.
So I'm still free,
but too numb to feel pity,
And now this still city's a ghost town.
Snowflakes cover the ground in white carpet,
Seasons of espionage as time passes.
The lion hearted,
Survival of the hardest artist.
My open arms embrace darkness,
Still craving carnage and infamy,
But even parasites starve in this carcass of industry.
I go north, ankle deep in snowfall,
leaping over drystone walls with a holdall,
Steamclouds rise from my fiery breath,
It's the last twilight before the silence of death.

Urban poetry, innit. Got me through the weekend nicely.

Feeling happier now than I was earlier. Spending time with this little cherub (and her mum) is guaranteed to lift the spirits...Went to the park, fed the ducks and collected conkers. Ah, bless. We're getting a good rapport going, me and Grace, and I'm glad.

Oh dear. Got the mizzogs and a half today.

Gonna go walk it off and then help Lucy decorate her new council flat on Old Ford Road. Hopefully the company of her and little Gracey may distract me. Boo and Joe have gone to the woods but I declined to go with them as I am not really in a frolicking mood. Now that they have left I wish I did go with them. Fickle-as-fuck mate.

Stupid darkness. It strikes without warning and is also usually fairly random. On paper, everything is fine, no?

The frustrating events of yesterday do not warrant tears and gloom today...

Now. I know that I said I would take any job and not be precious about the whole thing when I got back to London, but that training session today took the fucking biscuit.

I seriously do not think I will be able to handle pouring champagne in a particular way so that rich bastard wankers like Elton John or the Queen don't complain about my service. I also would not be able to handle having the length of my shirt-sleeves dictated to me. I also would not be keen on dressing as a Bunny Girl. I'm not going back.

The tubes are absolutely up the spout (District line - severley fucked, Northern line - severely fucked also) and I got solicited in a vile manner on the way to said training session in the leafy Fulham suburbs by a middle aged creep in tweed. Why so guys do that? Did he seriously think I would say "Oh yeah ok, you seem nice, let's go down that alley and fuck?" Cha.

Also, I threw a cup of coffee into my lap and handbag whilst sharing what I had with a tramp in Angel.

However, there were bright spots to my day - Aced an interview for a job that I actually want this morning. Hopefully I will get that and not have to dress as a subservient Bunny Girl - ever.

And, was serenaded on the tube by a busker who performed "Man Who Sold the World" Aw how lovely. I think he serenaded me as I was the only person on the carriage who acknowledged his existence, let alone smiled at him.

Right, anyway, my spleen is adequately vented and I am going to relax in the best way I can think of.

Yee-fucking-ha! Fantastic news this morning. Sargent Pepper & Dougledutch have booked their flights to come and stay at my house for the Decompression in December....How very very exciting. I cannae wait hen...

Today I am full of love…..

Loving, loving, loving Karl Jenkins’ The Armed Man. It’s stunningly beautiful and I have got to that stage where I can’t leave the house in the morning without listening to it all the way through. Good for the soul but less so for punctuality, particularly when my amp breaks (old amp - you are nothing but trouble but I love you so) and I have to spend 20 minutes fixing it so that I can listen to the Benedictus.

Also loving this time of year. Particularly the crispness of the morning air. Even though it’s grey (obviously – this is London), it’s completely refreshing and fills me full of anticipation. Seasonal change is always exciting. There’s about three weeks left of this before it turns fucking freezing & dark 20 hours a day and I’m going to savour it.

I opened up the theatre this morning. God, an empty, dark, silent, underground theatre auditorium is a very strange space indeed. Particularly one as old as this. I like it very much.

Me and Hels invented a new leisure activity last night at Whitechapel sports centre. It combines badminton with the type of choreographed hip-hop moves usually seen on MTV Base to a soundtrack of dirty gritty grime and UK garage. I predict that it will become extremely popular amongst cunty Clapham-dwelling urbanites in manner of Capoeira and Hels and I will become rich.

One of the things that I love most about my girls is that we all share an attitude which enables us to make even the smallest, most mundane activity very fucking enjoyable. Last night’s Badminton game for example, or having teeth-cleaning stand-offs in the bathroom. You see, if everything has this playful edge to it, life is so much more interesting and there is less room for darkness, darkness all around.

Anyway, better do some work. Am up to my eyeballs in HR legislation - company policy on paternity leave etc – which I must finish today, yuckity yuck. This can in no way be turned into a fun game and must simply be written.

I was very very naughty this weekend and there are certain things I won't be putting on here as they are not fit for public consumption. All I will say is it involved a replica 9mm gun, "bat country" ie Oxford street at 4am on a Sunday morning, a hot dog vendor who claimed to be in the FBI or some such thing and a blonde wig.

Anyway, right, went to this party on Saturday with Helsy at my friend Tim's new house in Honour Oak Park. It was massive and posh as he has rich friends. There was some art on the wall that reminded me very much of one of the pieces at Burning Man. I was a bit dissapointed when Tim said I couldn't play with it.

It was a Tarantino theme so my Gladiator outfit didn't quite work. (oh no, actually they were my normal clothes.) Everyone there seemed to be....

A) 17 years old
B) called Oscar, Archibald or Jeremy, and
C) very fucking gullible.

We told them that Helen was the mother of one of the girls at the party and their response was - "Oh yar, that's amazing - you must be at least 40, how have you kept your looks?" To which she replied "I've pickled myself in alcohol darlings."

I unexpectedly spent most of the night in the garden on the phone to a certain gorgeous someone ( fucking result) and when I went back in, Helen was scaring the young people by waving a gun in their faces as they snorted MDMA off the kitchen worksurface whilst shouting "Mumsy doesn't like it!" She was wearing a brown wig which did indeed make her look about 40 and also had found some stage blood from somewhere and painted her lips with it.

I decided at that point maybe we should bust a move so we went out into the night with our spoils and got a lift off a charming gentleman thief who picked us up at the bus stop. He explained about what he did for a living on the way to New Cross but said it was ok as he would never "Do over his own" (I think he meant us, worryingly.)

To cut a long story short, we spent about 3 hours on public transport, roamed about the West End being naughty & dangerous and never made it to the second party.

Yesterday was nice, ate good food, cleaned the house and went and played in two adventure playgrounds with Hels and Richie. Watched the sun set whilst perching on a trampoline trying to scavenge chips off kids.

This week I am going to behave like a responsible adult, embrace sobriety and maybe embark on a passionate fling. Just maybe...we'll see.

Tonight we are going to learn Spanish and play Badminton. Which is nice.