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Tatty Devine, Charm Earings

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NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER: If possible please play the You Tube song below softly in the back round while reading the following article.

Alcohol is not my friend I said to myself as I was escorted off South West Trains, then out of Wimbledon Station and into the rain by the ticket police at six in the morning last Sunday. A confused and slightly hopeful transgender in tow as I stormed out of the station clapped in irons indignant at the way I was being forced to pay for my own travel (how dare they) plus a fine! How had it come to this? I had started the previous evening at the height of respectability, lauded by all at a pink champagne reception for my philanthropic work (going above and beyond my role as ticket seller) at the Watch! Tickets Regional Employee of the Month Awards, except I doubly won because I met a girl. Lucy her name was, Lucy Duke, a painter and for her sins as beautiful as a summer’s day is long, tall Goddess talking to a small fat Gollum with feet of clay, why? I don’t know but for once I didn’t care because I was that guy. She fascinated me because she laughed at my jokes even when I wasn’t joking, which is all the time because I’m a serious guy, I never joke as a freelance journalist I deal strictly in facts. Anyways I was mid-way through repeating my acceptance speech for the third time of asking.

“There is a lot more to selling tickets than meets eye, for those that care first of all you can take it as read that anybody the works selling tickets (any kind) either should be or wants to be somewhere else; but such is the pull of the limelight for hovering moths such as we, and not just any lights, oh no, no these are the dancing embers, the glitzy sparkle, of theatre-land which makes it show business baby and IIIIII Love it!!!!!!! Next please.”

You’re so funny she said and stooped down to stroke my cheek. Later, quite co incidentally in conversation, we realized that we both happened to be in the same club on the same night on Halloween. I intimated that Lady Fate triumphing over the snake of chance had conspired to bring us together. She dismissed this tack by saying that the fact that the wanton hedonism of our youth overlapped was not indicative of a love less ordinary, besides she would never take a prospective suitor who she met in a club that seriously so it didn’t matter anyway, the important thing was that we were meeting now. I nodded sagely (although that is pretty much the only reason I go clubbing any more). She continued, case in point that very night I took it too far and passed out trying to escape some man but my friend caught me just in time and took me home “Euurgh sleazy men.” she said with a shudder. Again I nodded sympathetically. “I wore an eye-patch.” I replied feeling a little bit like I had said I carried a watermelon.

She looked at me slightly nonplussed “I suppose it was Halloween” then as a tentative after thought that she might come to regret later “Erm, what you doing later? I am holding a risotto party with some friends and you should…

“Sorry to interrupt” a weasel with a nasal voice said “but we just need to borrow our little superstar for some press shots for the news-letter”

I couldn’t believe it, she was about to ask me to her house! Now boys, I doubt that you are as stupid as me, in fact I would go so far as to say some of you are so on point that you have two distinct voices for boys and girls, like “Nah blud trust me I will fuuu.. Hold on let me just get this … Hi Baby, How are you? Love you too bubby, me 1 me 2 can’t wait to see you, no you, no you, no you. Love you Honey bum I got to go, kisses” (a peculiarly male trait which I frankly can’t abide by) …but I digress, a window of opportunity is so called for good reason, because it is exactly that, and like all windows one day you can arrive a tap tap tapping only to find them firmly shut; peering in wondering when you got forgotten, so instead of saying, Hold on a second Mr Weasel. Yes I would love to what is the address? A couple of champagne glasses to the good, flash bulbs popping in my face, whispered promises of West-end box office status and success, I made another arrangement (Note to self, become social ladder climbing, money grabbing hot-shot, who forgot who is real friends are).

Before long the weasel with the comb-over suggested we move the party elsewhere, which is how I came to be at the Brixton Bar and Grill (the scene of a considerable lapse in judgement revisited in this column). I sauntered to the door singing I guess you wonder where I been, search to find the love within. I came back to let you knooow… and sure enough there at the door was a man who I had met before. The weasel did not believe that she flattered to deceive and convinced me in my inebriated state that, in fact, he was a moderately attractive girl with a hilarious sense of humour. There was only one way to be certain, realising that at heart I am nothing if not a hopeless romantic who desirest only to be held, but not too tightly mind, I’d be afraid the he/she might eat me (she is on the larger size). Give us a kiss I demanded and rather demurely she obliged.