I was minding my own business in Hyde Park, hoping I’ll never have a bench named after me, when a dog called Jekyll tried to rape me. His panting owner, whose red face made me reach for my SDSM, blamed me for his pooch’s bad behaviour. “Don’t encourage him,” Big Red shouted, like it’s my fault his pet is a rapist. There’s not much a blast of SDSM can’t cure but this victim blamer was inflamed with outrage so I didn’t waste my NIOD on him.
What kind of a weirdo calls his dog Jekyll? Names are important and that’s just not the right name for a sex offender. In China, people change their name when they want to change their luck. I was supposed to be called Vivien after the bi-polar beauty Vivien Leigh but my dad got drunk on his way to register my birth. He forgot the time. And the date. And the name. All he could remember after a night on the single malt was that I had been born in Grandfather Money’s bed; though Grandfather wasn’t in it at the time. The registrar preferred screwball comedienne Carole Lombard to mad, bad Vivien Leigh so my evil twin got to be Vivvy.
Fortunately I never leave home without Viv, who gets blamed for my bad behaviour, so I gave the sex mad pooch a few lashes with my mini wet brush which doubles up as a chib; and squirted myself with anti-biotic Collodial Silver, essential ammo for everyone who attracts beast love. Back in olden days when I had pores, my ex-bestie Mad Jack lived in Hyde Park by the pet cemetery where Granny Black’s pink poodle is buried; while I was parked in the only hotel on Bayswater Road that wasn’t run by a pimp. This was the pre-NIOD age, when everyone including Princess Diana had their blackheads extracted by Janet Filderman whose dog Hogan lurked under the treatment table.
When Hogan died he was replaced with a new Hogan. Like my mad professor, the Quattrocento Dwarf, whose wives are always called Kirsty. Janet, who was also an astrologer, would practically sing, “You’ve got to suffer for your beauty”, as she wielded her vacuum suction tube; telling me about the backwards kick I was about to get from Saturn. But now I don’t have to suffer. I can stay up all night and look like I had one of my 14 hour sleeps with a little help from my morning ritual: Sanskrit Saponins, SDSM, Rice Milk, FM, Myrrh Clay, Mastic Must, SDSM (again) CAIS, Re-Pig, MMHC, EUK, Survival and HV.
Is that what the other Canadian Leonard Cohen meant when he sang, “I’ll wear a mask for you”? Close your eyes now if you prefer not to be shocked. Guru Gill cheats! She mixes EUK with HV! So she’s using HV before Survival!! I have a written confession. She will probs go to hell and meet interesting people. Jekyll moved on to his next girlfriend, a vain wee shih tzu, and I went back to my book Girl Boy Girl: The JT Leroy story. Laura Albert used the pseudonym JT Leroy for her poetic novel Sarah about a trailer trash rent boy. Feeling fat, she hired her androgynous sister-in-law Savannah Knoop to be JT at parties with celebrity admirers like Madonna and Winona.
When Albert’s identity was revealed, by her husband of all people, she was vilified and sued for signing a movie deal as JT; bizarre since he was her creation. Who else should sign contracts for her work? For every bully who hides behind a perfect photoshopped social media selfie there’s an intriguing person, like Laura Albert, that you become invisible friends with. As a sociopath who lives in Soho, in danger of bumping into frenemies every time I leave my lair, I love the detached intimacy of online friendships.
I’ve never met Guru Gill and I suspect she wants to keep it that way. She thinks I’m pure bonkers but she hasn’t met my deadglam henchgirls Silver and M-Tang who spent the weekend in a field having frog jizz scratched on their legs by a shaman. M-Tang faced the frog wearing Colours 1.0N; Stemm-junkie Silver, who had prepped with Glow Oil the night before, experienced the Kambo ceremony wearing a few drops of High Spreadability Fluid Primer mixed with Photography Fluid. Maddie says I “make up lies for a living” but I couldn’t have invented Silver and M-Tang who were fans of my book Dead Glamorous before becoming employees in Dead Glam enterprises after connecting with me on Twitter.
They are as real as my tubercular toe which I contracted while living in a ditch on a weekend “jolly” with the Parachute Regiment. Lies are easy to believe but the truth can seem incredible. Now that I’m older and better looking, I’m too shallow for beauty treatments but I pure love pedicures. Look after your feet and your face will take care of itself as Granny Black didn’t say because she was squashing her feet into stilettos until she was in her coffin. Of course she had a manservant to carry her to her pink Rolls Royce. Yes there was talk; but she couldn’t hear it. It’s time to leave the park and have my toes painted purple at the Margaret Dabbs sole spa by Joan who doesn’t judge my tubercular toe or my choice of nail polish but tells me off for not using the Foot File enough.
I’m addicted to The Chemistry Brand’s heel hydration but despite being too shallow for manicures Dabbs’ glass nail file makes me want to go on living and is always in my pocket with a crystal a witch in Selfridges gave me to ward off jealous rivals. “You have an enemy,” the witch told me, handing me the black tourmaline. What? Only one? Surely I’m more popular than that. I’m a bad person who does bad things so I couldn’t resist picking up the stick thrown for Jekyll and accidentally-on-purpose firing it at Big Red. It’s not illegal to have a sense of humour in England yet.