That Friday fillin’

A Friday night of madness in swinging London was to begin yet again as I was on my out with the Hackney hard men to cause some mayhem. I was off to meet up with a few of the Celebs I’ve come to know through my journalistic links. I slammed some tequila’s down my due south while I listened to Ruff slag Cilla go on about her singing days. With a few drinks in her she’ll waffle on about anything. Once she told me of her bizarre Ping-Pong ball trick she does with the help of a Kuala.

Along comes socialite Tara Palmer Tompkinson or what ever her name is an easy lay by all means I politely nod as I might need to hit the old reliable if nothing better comes along. I finish my larger and head off round the bar with Jack Dee the true drunken sarcasmo. On our way we see Elton with his hand in Jamie Theakson’s sky rocket looking for more than a bit of change. We mosey on as Jack keeps going on about how Vanessa felt his meat and two veg. This was followed by his girlish giggle. We get a couple of shots before we head off to the new exclusive club "Cotton" on Westestishire street.

No hassles getting past the Northern Slobs who work most doors in London. As we cruise through the crowd we see that Victor Meldrew guy bringing the untalented Danny Minogue to the corner no doubt to show her his elephant impression. Jack screams "he don’t believe it" and then does a runner as he sees Vanessa slitting the crowd like Moses to get at him. I quickly maneuvered out of her way and copped a feel on the Petit Billy which made her ginger shadow red with anger. Moving swiftly onwards to the bar to grab The Dudes choice a white Russian and off to ramble through the ranks again.

Suddenly I see the young and naïve girls from "Atomic Kitten". So young, innocent and easily corruptible when supplied the correct minerals. After a bit of gentlemanly discussion I lead one of the girls off to meet a friend of mine. On our way to the lavvy I am rudely stopped and insulted by Frank Skinner a washed up recovering Alco bitch. This trouble began on previous night when myself and ruff boy Dustin Hoffman playfully attempted to inject vodka into his Carotid artery. Granted Skinners on the metaphorical wagon but why then subject us to his sober stupidity and let the rest of us get on with our harmless antics of drunkenness. Luckily I carry syringes of vodka with me. I indulged his colourful language for a moment longer and then with a quick jab of the syringe to his lower abdomen ended the predicament.

With that over I went off to test the pitch of the young kittens vocal cords. The young lass had to bite her lip to help her refrain from making too much noise. As bout four commenced I noticed her lips was bleeding and swollen. Once I finished up I got her to clean up her bleedin’ gob. I sat on the jacksie with the girl, you know for some of that quality time. Once the bleeding had stopped she gladly went down on the Guvnor’ as a show of thanks for my sensitive caringness. With that swollen lips sensation I thought to myself "this is the type of girl you marry", then I came and went back to the party at hand to jump on the now convulsing Frank Skinner.