Turns out that Nuthatch has taken his often-expressed desire not to lay a heavy vibe on anyone to its logical extreme, by reincarnating himself as a personal yoga teacher to Madonna and Sting (Sting, you say? Would he have achieved such wealth and recognition if he’d named himself Proboscis, or Ovipositor, I wonder?). I was heartened to see that in spite of his new A-list starf**king credentials, he’s still styling himself on Leo Sayer.
Which got me to reminiscing, like the fifth-rate Marcel Proust that I would love to be, about our joyous 1998-era flat in West Ken. This lurid den played host to not one but *two* legendary parties, each featuring much insalubrious action, including a live sex show (you know who you are); Hawaii Elvis and Las Vegas Elvis escorting a Razzle sub-editor off the premises for lying on the living room floor grasping at women’s crotches; my friend S sprayed from head to foot in gold paint; two other friends attempting carnal unity in our tasteful mirror-fronted wardrobe; the Second Coming of the Messiah; an impromptu fireworks display on the roof terrace *and* a number of friendly visits from the Environmental Health and HM Constabulary.
Happy days. Still, as Proust will attest, you can’t carry on like that forever. Can you?
2 comments:
Probably because I nicked all your best lines.
Of course the real answer is that the funniest person (who isn't you) is the legendary nibus, purely on the basis of the crossword clues in the Random Times
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