" When I go out," my friend Bianca explained, " I decide to either show my legs and cover up my top or show the top and cover up my legs, I don't show everything at once, like that."
We looked across the road where the girls in high heels they didn't know how to walk in, skirts so short the world was their gynocologist, and breasts nearly exploding out of that strapless dress all while the girls made some rude pelvic thrusting motions at the cars that felt it prudent to honk at them. These sort of creatures are a very common occurance in such tourist bile holes as Leicester Square, Soho, and Piccadily Circus but they are headed East. Oh yes much to the horror of the emaciated, narcisistic masses of East London the scum of London clubland: the chav's in their skimpy Primark, Indian men in ill fitting suits, and of course Essex girls are invading Hoxton Square.
I knew we were in trouble when wearing my armour and Grace Jones hood we sauntered into Baby Beach Towel Babylon for Slave to Fashion. An amazing industry cocktail party, that is always free, and once it gets late enough full of gorgeous people caked in glitter, wearing sequined American football pads and a Darth Vadar mask. We had to hit up the Trailer Trash Warehouse rave afterward so we thought it prudent to arive a half ten. It was a bit of a shock. Outside, the smokers queue did not seem to posess anyone of merit. We entered, we found ourselves in the middle of a lavishly decorated dining room filled with businessmen and Essex girls, we went into the basement, more suits and short hem lines but then like a beacon of light we saw Daniel Lismore in some green cape concotion, a feirce tranny in some tight black number, and a gorgous German boy wearing what looked like Gareth Pugh. We ran to them like a life raft shoving our way through the hen night girls wanting to dance to the 'alternative' English pop , fortunately Daniel gave us complimentary champagne we started having a little chat. Indeed as the hours wore on things improved dramatically. By midnight, electro laced Grace Jones was blaring, and photographers were swarming over tonnes of gorgeous gay men wearing millinary, and girls in seventies jumpsuits with fake eyelashes. The Essex crew had no doubt retreated in mixed amusement and fear to the upstairs where they still were not safe, what with trannys on running about fighting over who stole the coke spoon. Fortunately at Trailer Trash there was not even a hint of the West End crowd so my mind was suddenly put at ease.
Until I saw on Facebook that this horrible Kate Hollis who is always inviting me to On Anon, Tiger Tiger, ick, ick is hosting an Easter party at the Hoxton Pony. Shoreditch has been introduced as the next place to party for the uncouth,unfabulous, and unfashionable. So grab your gold dipped fur, and skin tight jumpsuit and retreat deeper into Hackney. Possibly to Images (it will be a while before the Essex girls find that one).