Sinister: No-one called Pablo Picasso an Asshole

[Williams Adam (Mr A)]

Hiya. 
Just a tale on the magical healing qualities of B&S, plus the ever-pleasant
taste and a kick like a bottle of Benolin. But the risks, oh the risks...
  I was out with me ol' mucker John Stuart Mill the other day who was well
narked at having his holiday snaps snipped out of the final cut of 'When
Celebrities Strip' a couple of weeks ago, and was trying to provide him with
the greatest amount of pleasure in the smallest amount of time. (Plus,
although he still denies it, I'm sure he's still upset that Immanual Kant
ran off with Gloria Steiner on him.)
  "I mean Gail bloody Porter," he was moaning, "Yeah she gets her arse on
the Houses of Parliament, but how many people inside has she influenced with
HER work, eh? Apart from Robin Cook, obviously."
  We sipped a few absinthes in a pub on the Stockwell Road and headed off to
a little indie club called the Hershey bar. A girl, obviously not a listee
due to her lack of fear of other-gendered people, started tagging along. She
was dull in a suicidal-junkie kinda way and kept banging on for advice about
the whole to-be-or-not-to-be biz. I recommended bleach and cheese wire. "I
know," she said, "Why don't i just go prozzie myself out and spend all the
money on drugs to shove up my arse?" JS congratulated her on her utilisation
of available resources and we left her scuttling along the kerbside.
  The club was packed. The DJ wore a paint-spattered overcoat and had a bit
of grass on his head. "Who are you meant to be this week then?" I asked. 
"Winston Churchill," he replied, cueing up Kajagoogoo.
"Well hows about a bit of B&S, Winnie?"
"Sure, which one"
"Slow graffiti."
"That's the one that sounds like the Laughing Gnome?"
"ummmmmmmm..."
  
JS was looking dour ("I mean, Sharon crapping Stone. What did SHE ever
write?") next to some dark haired girl. He often looks dour though, it's
just a side effect of being dead. The girl had the gall to try talking to me
without having the courtesy to be witty or interesting. "Look you," I said,
"This is a conversation, not a website. Give me one reason why i shouldn't
grab you by the shoulders and shake you like an English nanny."
"It's not my fault," she simpered "i'm only a figment of the imagination of
some bored temp on a long lunchbreak. Anyway, i'm also quite cute and have
the air of a young Audrey Hepburn." 
I bought all her drinks for the rest of the night.  
 Then Slow Graffiti started. "Oh, I love this," said JS, cheering up almost
instantly. "It's easily my favourite Bowie track."
 "It's Belle & Sebastian, you gibbon."
 "I knew that."
Most of the others in the crowd didn't, but like JS they seemed converted. I
pushed my hand and asked Winnnie for more. String Bean Jean, TBWTAS, Photo
Jenny and Dog on Wheels all followed suit interspersed with early 80s stuff
by MOnkeyWhore, The Edams and Arsecandle. JS got into the swing and put
aside his usual Blue Oyster Cult requests to ask for the whole of Tigermilk.
Winnie obliged and the crowd went as wild as Bowlie-haired ineffectual
youths get. (Not very, but they were happy)
 Then things went wrong...
Winnie ran out of B&S and started playing Bis. JS tried saving the evening
with a swift request for Debonair, but this only incensed the kids further.
Robbed of their fix they got violent and blamed me and JS. I slipped out the
back as they hanged him from a mirrorball and set fire to his teeth.

I guess there's a moral here somewhere, but i'm buggered if i know what.
Something about 'don't spoil yourselves', maybe. Answers on a postcard for a
lollipop.

be slinky.
a.

P.S.. 'Twee' IS a pejorative. I am not in any sense twee. But if anyone ever
claims i'm not a sweet and sensitive sunbeam of loveliness, I'll glass the
fucker.
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