I've never been to the Cat and Mutton before, but apparently it's official T4 headquarters now. I don't feel comfortable looking at any of those guys without a terrible hangover. Had to resist the urge to approach Henry Holland and scream "Jeans with holes punched in them? What the fuck were you thinking, dude?", but live and let live, I say, particularly as I bought one of his t-shirts from Dover Street Market back in the day, and I'm a lover, not a fighter. Have nothing to do today, so Lucy and I are "doing" the charity shops on the Kingsland Road this afternoon, after I scored an amazing Grace Jones EP in one in Wimbledon yesterday - I'm really eager to get my hands on some kind of slutty slip dress (preferably in pink satin and, dare I say it, a bit Courtney Love circa Live Thu This), because I just got my really severe "retarded Henry V" fringe cut back in and it's quickly become apparent that I need to signpost my sex appeal as clearly as possible. I tried to get an appropriate picture to demonstrate, but you have no idea how nervous I was googling "kinderwhore" for fear of being mistaken for some kind of Chris Langham character (topical satire circa 2005 a-fucking-hoy!).
Shout-out to the girl doing 'rokes at The Birdcage who sang an emotional Phil Collins song and read "Instrumental!" breathlessly off the autocue during the breakdown as if it was the very thrust of the song. Regarding Sanna's comment on my last post - I'm cool with that, but if it's going to be a date, then you should know here and now not to expect any action. They don't call me Philippa "Two Date" Snow for nothing. (They don't call me that. Come to think of it, they don't call me at all. Maybe it's because I put out too soon. Bummer.)