So, tonight is the night

That I shall be spending in Rescue Rooms attending Dollop, an event that is basically all about one of my favourite people, Mr. James Fucking Blake.
He shall be mine.


I will be there, consumed by a passion of lovers as yet unloved. And I shall be surrounded and absorbed by a wide and forever varied selection of friends, my sweet dear darling ones, as it is Miss Cirquedusoleil's birthday night, and all is very, very exciting.

So here we go, for the DJ set he shall be my muse, for the after-party of acoustic renditions of Feist and Joni Mitchell songs, he shall be my man.

J'espere ca, beaucoup...

Toothpaste Kisses

Dedicated especially for my leggy lady (and of course, to Little Miss Birthday Brat - Penny Lainne).

All my love, forever ever more. 

I miss, part one

I miss sunshiney Pimms picnics on the castle tourist pit of a lawn, up by the sket hole that is BZR in Nottingham city centre.
I miss sharing a smile Nana Dawg as we smirked smugly at poor Wally, long before he lost himself in angular pretention. I remember the olives, the feta, the grease caught sneakily beneath the finger nails and the grimey sight of mediterranean herbs caught between your perfect teeth.
I miss the days of the haze. The warm pints of cider, sipped from crooked lips smeared with last night's lipstick and alcohol. I miss the days of the haze. The harsh discussions of literature, musicality, lyricism and film. European cinema was your forte baby, but I was, at the time, too vain to care, preferring instead the gossip surrounding my beloved Brooklyn boys, the bands and the bastards, the kisses and broken promises. I prefered the frosting to the sponge of your perfect non-birthday cake. You smothered your cheek bones with the moist sponge, whipped up for you in my frenzy of ever-ageing love and respect.

You're so worth my while. And baby girl, you always fucking will be.