Still feeling a bit rough. Been a busy week at work too. Next week me and the big fella are on holiday. We’re off to Blackpool for the illuminations. My parents will join us for a few days. I’ve bought tickets for us all to see Ken Dodd at the Grand Theatre. We will be back in London in a week to see junkie punky Michael Clark at Sadlers Wells (v.excited).

Evening Standard billboards today:

HARRY DOWN UNDER - FIRST PICTURES!

I wonder if the carpets match the curtains.

...and now I have gastric flu.
I have never, ever ever, ever, been as ill as I was on Friday and Saturday. Penny Sillin is trying to help.
*shuffles off wrapped in blankets nibbling on a paracetamol*

Aoccdrnig to rseearch at an Elingsh uniervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are. The olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer is at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae we do not raed
ervey lteter by itslef but the wrod as a wlohe.

I had a stomach ulcer about three years ago. Doctor cleared it up with pills. It’s come back. Heavy sweats and painful rumbling guts last night. Poor nights sleep and vicious dreams. Doctor seeing me at 4pm. At work due to a briefing request from an A-list Royal going to Central Asia next week. Must get stress free job stacking shelves at Tesco.

Hahahahahahahahaha...
"Tormentors have also thrown eggs and bananas and even sent a burger up on a remote-controlled helicopter."

Just had a two-hour-taking-the-piss type lunch. Strolled across St James Park to the ICA where I looked at pictures of cocks in the new Butt and Richardson magazines. Lunched at Wong Kei in Chinatown (£3.80 in the sad ‘dining alone’ section) then ambled back to work in the late summer sun (which I am soooooo sick of now, roll on winter).

Mike Patton era Faith No More is my favourite.

Ena Sharples, Minnie Caldwell, Bet Lynch and Len Fairclough on the caterpillar at Manchesters Belle Vue amusement park in 1970. Len was done for kiddie fiddling in the 80's. They cleared him out of Coronation Street in a car crash.

Threw a sicky on Tuesday and went to Blackpool. Spent 3 days up a ladder painting and eating pies. Came home last night for a rest.

That David Blaine show on Sky One last night was such a non-programme. The drippy crowd consisted of pram faced girls from the Bermondsey council estates nearby (we looked for Eloon as she works close to this farce but she was probably up to her waist in champagne and tears of relief by 8pm). Mr Blaine was off his tits on god knows what and the presenter, Nicky Campbell, was just shit (and I’ve never forgiven him for crimes against humanity from his days as Radio 1’s drive time dj). It just seemed like a way to show us loads of clips of his old magik tricks. When Mr Blaine and his entourage arrived I said to Darren that one of the hangers-on looked like Harmony Korine and then cnuty Campbell confirmed that it indeed was the weirdo, and all round cool motherfucker, who directed Gummo. I saw him in the background being bossy to a fella with a dig-cam so maybe he’s making a snuff movie starring David Blaine. In fact, I bet he talked him into dying in that fish tank by telling him that he’ll get Chloe Sevigny to weep at his funeral.

UPDATE
Well well, just discovered that Mr Korine is indeed making a movie of this event. Is Tarkovsky dead (as this whole boring spectacle is right up his street)?

Although I adore nose diving earthwards on roller coasters I'm actually afraid of heights. I feel safe while strapped into a sleek big dipper car and can even enjoy the views during the lift hill climb. But put me on top of a tall building without railings or on one of those rides that shoot you heavenwards at 100mph and I'm a bit of a girl. Which is why when I saw this picture today I felt quite nauseous.
Earlier this year Darren and I were in Las Vegas. We pledged that we would ride the Big Shot on top of the Stratosphere Tower. We left it till the last day which turned out to be grey, cold and damp. We bought our tickets at groundlevel and rode the elevator to the top of the tower. When we got outside it had just started to rain and was mighty windy (they even have a little roller coaster up there but it was closed due to the wind). We only waited 5 minutes before we were strapped in and the contraption rose a little to weigh it's 12 victims. Then 'bang!' it shot us up another 200ft on top of the 1000ft roof of the tower. I shouted "fuuuuuuuuck" a few times and then it was over. Apparently this is what you can see if you don't close your eyes. The whole experience was terrifying but highly enjoyable (something to do with adrenaline and setting oneself goals). Darren had planned to ask me to marry him seconds before take off in the hope that this would shift my fear onto another subject leaving me free to enjoy the ride. Unfortunately he forgot that he was shit scared of heights too so spent his last few seconds frantically triple checking his safety harness. I woulda said yes though.

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Shocking picture of an overdose victim.

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*sits at desk listening to The Darkness stroking thin wispy hairs on upper lip*

Oh Dermot how I do loveth your new look. And you! you sexy beast! Of course, Olly is the king of this sort of thing and still sets my loins afire just like when I was 10 years old. But this is just silly.
Some people use a snood to keep it in place at night, while others shampoo theirs every day. But a comb and the application of a little wax each morning serves for most of us. The aim of Tacheback is simple: to return the moustache to its rightful place as a must-have fashion accessory, and to raise funds for research into male cancers in the process. Right on! My Uncle George had a cracking tache in the 70's (6ft 2, 25yrs old and a Marine), I longed to run my tongue along its edges when he played subbuteo with me.

Get your hands off my woman motherfucker!

Saw this on rubbishgays and had to share it with those who may not have seen it. Cheered me right up today. Check out the extra pics. It's real! Really real!! He must come to our next soiree.

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I really hate that smug couple from the Direct Line ads on telly. Not only are they completely mis-matched (her - plain, him - listens to the Levellers) but he thinks an 'overblown romantic gesture' is some crappy flowers wrapped in plastic from a garage. Fuckers.

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Howard Donald (the one nobody fancied in Take That) will be dj-ing at Pacha this Saturday. Or should that be 'will be DJ-ing at Patha thith Thaturday'? *Guilty laugh*. He's the one who looked like he slept rough. Or was that Mark Owen?

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How painful was that to get done?

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Nicked from Popbitch...
I phoned Pizza Hut the other day and ordered a thin and crusty supreme and they sent me Diana Ross.

I'm still here. Still reading my favourite blogs everyday. Not got much to say. I think I have bloggers block.