Diary Of A VH Addict

Big Head

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It started with my tubercular toe. But let’s not start at the very beginning; often a bad place to start. This week it started with the fat lady who fell on top of me; somewhere between sexual assault and attempted murder. It could have happened to anyone; but it happened to me. The fat lady landed on the cracked toenail that had already been run over by a PR who went all passive-aggressive with the wheels of my suitcase after offering to push it for me.

No sooner had foot queen at Margaret Dabbs glued my big toe back together than the fat lady danced on it.  I put out my hand to stop her having a second jig and sprained my wrist. Sane Shabir sent me Bromelain for soft tissue injury which solved that problem. Then I woke up with a spot. More like a planet than a spot. Next time you use a Spacemask, instead of going to Mars you could just pay a visit to the gigantic plook on my face. I could build homes on it and solve the international refugee crisis. Read More…

Creepy Claus

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Dangerous and I don’t do Christmas. “Is that allowed?!” Crazy K screamed, even more shocked than the time she caught me dancing in my pants to Abba. You know that thing when people have Mad stuck in front of their name – Mad Gill springs to mind – but they are frighteningly sane? Well, Crazy K is really crazy. Top of her xmas wish list is a trip to the loony bin where the temptation to over-eat is curtailed by a strait-jacket.

My idea of a great diet is a pack of Biocol Labs Something for a Detox Week; hers is being chained to a pole beside a chamberpot. The Priory is for pussies; she wants a Nurse Ratched nuthouse. Last xmas Crazy K gave us His and Hers monogrammed colonic hoses (“unused”), when we would have preferred a Complete Body Cleanse Kit or a cup of Gentian Bitters. Dangerous has been phobic about opening unsolicited gifts since Mad Jen sent him a set of “spy soaps” she made out of hamster jobbie. Read More…

Tiny Acts of Evil

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I’m a tourist not a traveller. I don’t need to defecate in a dunde to enjoy myself. I can manage in dead glamorous hotels with a barman who makes the perfect martini and a bedroom blacked out better than Dracula’s coffin. But, like Freud, I feel anxious before travel even when my destination isn’t deprivation. He called it Reisefieber; I call it fear that my Louis Vuitton suitcase will be stolen. It’s all I have left of Granny Black. Apart from her rubies and pearls and spare teeth.

The first time my bag was snatched I was on holiday with Gang of Four: Maddie, Daddy and their two drunk doppelgangers. As we came out of the airport in Spain I saw an old guy with osteoporosis escaping with my suitcase. Maddie sank her teeth into him while Daddy grabbed his arthritic legs. Red faces all round when it turned out that old Salvador was our driver. Honour your father and mother; unless they are torturing an OAP. If there was any chance that Salvador’s still alive, I’d send him a bottle of Fountain Super HA for his joints and a tube of Sheald to fade the bite marks on his face. Read More…

Bad Behaviour

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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. Read More…

Desert Island Lips

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When Guru Gill invited me to select some of my favourite things, I had to resist loading the entire site into my basket. I’m struggling to find anything VH that I don’t adore.

Except maybe Enterosgel, the drink that stops diarrhoea, because it reminds me of a pig farmer sitting next to me on a flight to Columbo who said, “Don’t worry…I have lots of lovely pigs at home. You are not my type.”

But I don’t want to be banished from the inner sanctum. The Guru has already told me off. At least she hasn’t taken the Wet Brush to me. When I beat the manservant, I use the pink watercolour detangler with the scary spikes. Disciplining him totally tones my arms. Read More…

Bum Bum Bum…

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I’m on my roof in Soho, lurking behind a big tree, minding my own business until it’s time for Peeling Solution to come off when Crazy K calls begging for help. Again. She’s accidentally attached a bum selfie to her contacts’ list. Now everyone who gets a message from her is treated to a view of her recently waxed rear, she apologises just as ‘My Bum’ appears on my screen.

There are no compromises in backsides these days. They are either fatties or flatties. But in this pic Crazy K’s bum looks like two demented satsumas with scary sunburn. Funny I’ve never noticed the creepy rubbery texture before; ‘You’re looking at the wrong bum,’ she explains. ‘That’s the one I bought in Selfridges.’ She’d bought a blow-up bum when her boyfriend told her he likes a fatty but it turned out to be more of a farty and kept falling off so she gifted it to her mum. Read More…