I'm about to spend my evening watching Blue Velvet, because it's just been too long since I crapped my pants and/or felt nauseous, and I can also never get enough of feeling uncomfortable with the idea of ever calling my boyfriend "baby" again. I know you're probably wondering about my deeply glamorous night at the Supergrass afterparty, and I can reassure you that even though I was born in 1988 and thus don't remember a lot of the 90s, I got to re-live all of that Britpop shit by rubbing shoulders with all of the greats, including a frail-looking Natalie Imbrugliugluglia (remember when she was in Neighbours and then she did that "Torn" song?) and a sleazy Rhys Ifans (remember when he was in that one film I never saw and then inexplicably shagged Sienna Miller ten years later?). Cool Britannia, eh? At least the beers were free.
I'm really jonesing for a wardrobe with no doors, and I'm worried it's because of that bitch's walk-in-wardrobe in Sex And The City: Two Hours Twenty And Now Even Fucking Worse. Question of the day - is putting Russell Brand on your "list of five" (HYPOTHETICALLY SPEAKING, GOD!) a bit cruel to your partner? I mean, isn't it sort of like putting "Gareth from the Copy Shop" or "That dude who works in Superdrug that always checks out my ass" if you are a breathing human female who lives in the London area? Answers on a seaside postcard of some painted knockers (or a guy in a thong, I'm not picky) to the usual address. Or alternately, in the comments section. Yeah, I know you read this, you anonymous pussies. Bus-ted.