BOOZE HAG SLAG FAG

On Looking Fabulous or Being Hot

2009-08-24T06:22:00.000-07:00

There is a choice that faces those of us who live for the night. Hand-on-hip and mirror-gazing, we must search our souls for the answer to the eternal question: Do I wanna to look Fabulous tonight or do I wanna look Hot?

At first it may seem that looking fuckable and looking dateable are not mutually exclusive. Indeed, it is possible to mesh the two ideas. It is my belief however, that this is best left to those that have handbags named after them or have at least one Rock Star in their lineage. For us peasants, there is no middle ground. We need to be commited to our look, whether it be an all singing, all dancing virtual Christmas tree of an outfit or a savagely simple tee with a flattering Jean.

When deciding which road to take there is something you must consider. When each of us popped out of our mummies Bat Cave and into this cruel, cruel world we were dressed in nothing but a glunky coat of slippery juices. For the next bliss filled few years, it was perfectly acceptable for us to tear about the playpen with only the remnants of a Raspberry Popsicle covering us. Come the age of five though, the toddler flesh-fest is suddenly brought to a dramatic halt, and our frisky, nubile bodies are stuffed into all manner of hideously restrictive Department store fare.

It makes sense then, that if society insists that our dangly and sagging bits are to be covered, that we cover them in something divine. When you get down to the bones of it, anyone can be hot enough to pick up. With a sunbed loyalty card, a gym membership, a talented hairdresser and the right plastic surgeon, there's not much of a trick to it. Just ask Tara Reid. To look Jaw-dropping, crowd-staring off-the-chain Filthily Fabulous is another matter. Nothing quite beats wearing a kaleidoscope coloured 60's De la Renta with Ra-Ra green fringed moccasins and dancing till dawn while everyone else is crying with boredom in their American Apparel and wishing the photographer would notice them.

It's my advice that you celebrate genius in what you wear. There is no medium more affective or ideal for the placement of Art than the human body. If we are to be subjected to the absurdity and slog of living, then Goddamn it, I wanna be doing it in a 1930's sequined dinner jacket with a Pocahontas feel and Cartier-copy tiger rings.....

A Trashbag's lament On The Death of the Surry Hills Party House

2009-08-18T17:41:00.000-07:00

Whilst moving house, a gloriously disorganised friend stacked the majority of her frocks into a shopping trolley to push the two blocks to her new home. Enroute, a wheel fell off the trolley, leaving her dragging seven years of carefully selected Party Outfits (and a not-too-shabby collection of Heels) through the late night streets.

To see her through this disaster however, she did what most Surry Hills dwellers did when relocating home: took another swig of Vodka, smoked a fag, and had a little snort of something to keep her spirits up.....

But the times they are-a-changing. The humble last minute move to yet another crappy Terrace House is fast becoming impossible in Surry Hills. And Why? Cunty families from Ryde are renovating our Shitholes into pretty little bungalow's, catapulting rental prices and making noise complaints like they're going out of fashion.

A case in point is your bloggers recent eviction from one such shithole. With it's crumbling fireplaces and scum stained bathtub, I thought I'd found my perfect home. Five weeks later, my roommates and I were out on our vintage-clad arses. The reason being? TOO MUCH NOISE.

I mean sure, it's possible that we often did escort a gaily dressed throng of gurners back to ours at dawn for more drinks and No-Doze. It's possible also, that we were in possession of a Megaphone which was used at such times to holler such vital questions as "Does anyone have a cigarette filter?"....But Come On! Isn't such behaviour what makes city living so colourful and effervescent? Didn't we, the Party Pigs, lay claim to the city suburbs long before the Pram-Pushing, Beige-wearing 9am power walkers???

It puzzles me, In a world where a pair of earplugs will set you back a couple of dollars, that the noise complaint process even exists, let alone is utilised. I don't furiously dial the police when the upwardly mobile "funky" professional families roar up my street in their SUVS at 9am on a Saturday morning to hit fucking IKEA. Will they not show us the same courtesy?

I've certainly got a couple of more evictions left in me in Surry Hills. I'm sure, however, that eventually a new suburb will need to be found to call home. Maybe Redfern? At least the poor know how to Bloody Party.....

On Being Nice To People You Hate

2009-03-22T06:15:00.000-07:00

It is the curse of this Auckland City of ours that those that make us want to run screaming for the hills are near impossible to avoid. A pre-morning-shower scoot to the Dairy to get Toilet Paper and cigs turns into an impromptu High School Reunion, Family catch-up and Staff Party, with the odd regretable one-night-stand thrown in, whilst you have last night's booze on your breath, and an empty condom packet attached to your shoe. It's hideous I know, but like or lump, this is how our town works. We all go to the same few fabulous bars and live in the same few fabulous area's (apart from those who don't but they obviously got suckered into the whole "(insert crappy suburb name here) is the new Ponsonby" bullshit line that real estate agent's have been peddling for years).

The downside of this of course, is that anywhere one goes, one finds oneself in the company of a hated acquaintance.

It used to be a matter of personal pride that I did not maintain relations with those that I loathe. Nothing. Not even a "Hey Babes, you look good!" or a "How's Sandringham?" would pass my lips to those chosen horrid few. I would not Greet, dance within four feet of, nor make eye-contact (aside from the occasional surly glare) with these un-lovely ones.

This approach has proved to be folly. With the best non-deceitful intentions of being open and honest socially in mind, I succeeded only in morphing my thinly-veiled spite into a thundering war-cry, other people got involved, inevitably picked sides and it always got very boringly Mean Girls. Moreover, a steely persona of contempt is rather hard to maintain, and rather vile for all involved, including the one projecting said persona. Not only that, the awful reality is that any private event that the object of your wroth attends will force the host of that event to decide whom to invite between the two of you-and you may not always win, Gasp.

The following methods to deal with Being Nice To People You Hate are recommended:

Never show outward signs about your feelings to the friends of your despised. This is tacky and pointless. The friends will certainly sympathise with the despised and you will be demonised. Plus, it's pretty lamely bitchy.

If a conversation with the odious one is essential make it a heart-2-heart, and make it fictional. Something related to childhood, parent's or love life is ideal fodder and can be lifted directly from the life story of, say, Courtney Love, and can be modified to fit you. This is brilliant as not only is actual truthful conversation/interaction between you avoided (you don't wanna tell this Mole your fucking life story, clearly) but the odious one will believe that the two of you have conversed deeply and personally, and thus be thrown off the scent of your scathing inclinations.

It is important not to take the Moral Highground. If it is decided that you hate someone, none of their drabbish actions should surprise or outrage you. Of Course they were responsible for that massive gaping hole of a failed apartment development on Ponsonby Road and they killed Bambi. Not interested. Better still, don't take any "ground" moral or otherwise at all. They should be persona non grata in your life, to be viewed with indifference when viewed at all.

Keep in mind: though the wretch may be the filthiest, most heinous first-born of Adolf Hitler and Oprah Winfrey, Manners, as in any social occasion, are paramount. Always say "How are you" to the cuntface, smile, then dash off as quickly as possible. Be polite and gracious, remembering that the most leering, sweaty, foul-mouthed, rip-off artist Taxi Driver is deserving of such minor niceties. And no one likes a Rude Bastard, regardless of whom's company they are in.

The Nominations for Booze Hag Slag Fag Honours of the Year Part One

2008-12-19T16:53:00.000-08:00

The Paul Phillips Bunny-Tail for Cutest Boy About Town:

Lance Martin: A pair of specs, a little green beanie and a face straight from Pixie Land. Oh my god, and he's actually nice....It is unsure whether he's gay or straight but it doesn't matter, all we want is to dress him up and keep him at home to top up our wine glasses....
Paul Phillips: dashing about on his iphone in whites and greys and light blues and a well cut trench, he has dimples you could park a car in, a cheeky giggle and swishy hair. This is what you hope for when you fork out for private school fees for your kids....
Matthew Benns: A pocket-sized pretty boy of the Pacific, his long lashes and sweet, sweet face make us want to kill him with cuddles, or at the very least stick a dummy in his mouth...

The KY Jelly Cock-Ring for Mind-Bogglingly Hot Boy:

Jeremy Tapsell: A five o'clock shadow, olive skin and the most shatteringly piercing eyes, topped off with a vintage trackie and a moleskin notepad. Too, too, much.
Finn Andrews: Need it even be said? As tall as a giraffe and infinitely more elegant, he has that dewy finish that looks like hes about to have a really good cry. Don't worry, we'll kiss it better...
Elliot Serjeant: Okay, Okay, we all knew he was hot at the beginning of the year. That beauty spot and those lips and the slightly rosy cheeks. Then fuck me if he didn't bleach his hair, get a gold tooth, and start wearing three piece checkered suits and Italian shoes. It's like Billy Idol crossed with Agyness Deyn with a really hearty dollop of Hayden Christensen. Divine.

The "Wait-a-minute-maybe-i'm-straight" Alarm Clock for Ludicrously Sexy Woman:

Emma Rosenberg: In every sense the very picture of a classical beauty, she looks like she bathes every night in a golden bath of milk and honey. Add a pair of heels, put her on your arm, and you start to feel what life for Christy Turlington's husband must be like.....
Kylie McKenzie: Sucker-punched cheekbones, a supernaturally Amazonian body and killer, killer outfits. It's like Cleopatra rose from the dead, but this time she's got better headpieces...
Liz Maw: Platinum blond ed and bobbed, you will find her power-dressed in Gianni Versace, Christian Lacroix heels, with a diamante purse while playing the keyboard. Every iota oozes talent and confidence, and we feel like she's telling us off ever so slightly for being very, very naughty....

The Oops I Did It Again Rainbow Coloured Wig for Funnest and Most Outrageous Party Person:

Meggie Mapper: An entire Disco on legs, shes sipping absinthe on the dance floor in Jimmy D, make-up kit at hand, ready to help you reapply. When shes at your side, you don't even need drugs...
Julia Lomas: Construction site climbing, Indian Headresses and crushed velvet. She really doesn't care what you think, shes just there for the good times....Wanna buy her a drink? Cut the crap and make it a shot. Oh, and do you have a Line?

Thinspiration and Fur in Summer: The Fabulous and the Vile of the Week Just Gone

2008-12-14T18:15:00.000-08:00

FABULOUS:

Rosie Riggir at Chelsea Boys Saturday Night. The Front Woman of Charlie Ash stormed up after singing at Christmas In the Park (if you can fucking believe) wearing a slinky purple nighty-number and a hulking great faux Fur in the humid summer night. With a pint of Lager and cigarette in hand, she told me "You know, you just fucking get up there, and there's 180 fucking thousand people there, and you just belt out Saaannttaaaa Bbbaaaabbbyyy and they fucking love it"....Genius. The Band has been asked to play again next year. If only the conservative parents of middle New Zealand knew the antics of the musicians their toddlers were bopping about to.........

We Welcome a new Fashion Talent: Blair Archibald. I almost died when I saw Sharan and James behind the DJ Booth wearing contrasting Black and White puffy Bow-Tie detailed Fitted Tees on Saturday night. On enquiring on the designer, it all made sense when I was told it was Mr. Archibald. This man is a clear contender for Best Dressed in Auckland, and his designs smack of the delicious blend of Roaring Thirties pomp and decaying imperialism that mark his personal style. I need one of those shirts. His first show is with the divine Serena Fagence on Thursday night at Pull Bar. Don't miss it. Soon to be seen on the backs of all the well-heeled and relevantly attired....

Also new is fun-time Boy Jarrod Godman. We Love this cutie. Not only does he look about twelve, but i ran into him on the weekend wearing a scarf and a necklace (of his own design) as a sash. Holy Hell he looked good. He hails, absurdly, from a tiny town in New South Wales. Footnote: You know that massive building on Queen Street with the Vero billboard in neon lights? Well his Daddy owns the company. Lets conservatively say there's a couple of billion running through those thin, thin veins. Wanna be Besties?

VILE:

A month or so ago, a firmly joined-at-the-hip fashionista and beautiful Eastern some-time drag queen fag left for Tokyo to meet their model flatmate who had gotten work over there. I use the term flatemate loosely, as the "Flat" i refer to was owned by the Fag, whose Grandfather is numero-uno on the rich list in Taiwan. The model in question met the Fashionista, and promptly moved into the said digs, no doubt influenced slightly by the hardship of having a Mercedes and a BMW in the three bedroom townhouse at his disposal. He conveniently had pissed and blew away the money he had just made in Europe, where he went with his also model sister (who has just gotten a contract as the face of H&M). He made himself right at home, rent-free for six months and happily tagged along to all the divine parties his new "Flatemate" and "Girlfriend" were invited too. Then the opportunity arose for him to go to Japan. He left first, with the other two agreeing to meet him there in a couple of weeks. On their arrival the loser-model came to the hotel for two hours, then fucked off, not to be seen again. Apparently without the house and the cars and the fabulous social life his new "friend" and "girlfriend" offered, things weren't quite working out. Well good luck fuckhole, if he lives to be a hundred he will never find a lover as brilliant, and the thing is: Shes moved on. There are an abundance of Russian models in Tokyo at the moment. Her words: "Imagine it....young, vulnerable and can't even speak English....too easy". And take solace my dear friend. The models good looks will fade, but your fabulousness is forever.......

Recently the long term relationship of a fiercely gifted Boy-About-Town came to an end. It was definitely about time. Fast-Forward a few weeks later and a couple of bottles of wine, and he made the regrettable mistake of sleeping over with an over-ghd'd moron alcoholic/drug addict. Whats worse, his "Bed-Buddy" has entirely no talent to speak of, other than manipulating his way to free drinks and his name on the door, which the Boy-About-Town has ample access to. Now Mr Moron has told everyone and the sweet-unslutty reputation of the gifted one is soiled forever. Ah well, I guess sometimes it pays to consider the repercussions of a quick Blowey? P.S Mr No-Talent: That one was a freebie. Next time you fuck with my friends, I wont hesitate to rip out your hair and strangle you with it.....

In Defence Of Telling Losers what you really think of them....

2008-12-08T19:57:00.000-08:00

We are all, it seems, cursed with enacting completely meaningless interactions with people we hate. Its the way it goes. Sally-fucking-suck-hole still remembers that night you got really high and told her the story of your life, and as a result you seem to have signed on to forever having to say "hello" wherever you may run into her. It's Hell. And I wont stand for it anymore.....

In the spirit of the season, I had the pleasure of telling several boring waste of spaces what I really felt about them last weekend.....In doing so I discovered what bliss there can be in honesty....

Victim Number One was found dribbling in the corner at a Fabulous Fags late-night drinks on Friday night. The gent in question is the owner of a high-end High Street Fashion Store and a prime example of overstyled, American-Apparalised vulgarity. And not in the good way. It came to your bloggers attention that this moron had been telling friends of mine that I had once stolen money from him, no doubt to feed my reputed long term P Habit.

Doesn't he know I have a Trust Fund for that?

He Lent in to give me a kiss on the cheek, and naturally I recoiled. He then tried to engage in some sort of ill making "heart-to-heart" with your blogger, ending with the made-for-TV-movie line "you know that I like you as a person". I threw back "WELL I DON"T LIKE YOU", after I wiped the vomit from my mouth. There goes another fuckbag I wont be saying "Hi" to at DOC Bar anymore, thank god....Also, Buddy: Why don't you ask Santa for some Balls for Christmas and say your gossipy bullshit to my face?

Victim Number Two was found in that goldmine of Losers, Family Bar. After feeding the social smoking habit of a dimpled and adored friend, I found my pack of Peter Stuyvesants to be heartbreakingly empty. It's times like these that those of us with good outfits and passable looks must rely on the Kindness of Strangers for a Cig. Upon entering the courtyard at the afore-mentioned Bar, I asked the first fag with a fag for a fag.

At first he pulled out the pack slowly, withdrawing a cigarette. He then seductively held it in his hand for what seemed like an eternity. I said "I'm not going to beg you for it" at which stage he handed the blessed thing over. Hilariously, His conversational ice-breaker was "Do you guys play World of Warcraft?"clearly the only response my comrade and I could muster was a pure fit of hysterical laughter.

Then things got a little hairy. In an obvious act of insecurity at his own cyber-patheticness, the man had the nerve to attack my peacock-blue V-neck knit vest. He said "Don't you think you're fashionable with your little waistcoat" I replied "Yes I do". Then he went on and on, blabbing about how good I thought I looked in my "little" vest, which I did. I retorted "I'm going to give you three seconds before I throw my drink in your face: 3....2....1....0....." Splash. I chucked my vodka Lemonade, straw, ice and all over his untrimmed net-geek face. Whoops.

Honesty's the best policy kiddos....The two cunts mentioned above I will never have to greet or waste my time acknowledging again, Unless Hell freezes over. I suggest you all do the same. Save your energy for those you would hose down if they were on fire, and fuck social niceties.....

Consider the policy of a now London Dwelling Battery Hen Egg Millionairess friend of mine when dealing with Losers: "You're wasting your time, You're wasting my time, So why don't You Just Fuck Off?".

Weekly Doucheing: The Fabulous and the Vile of the Week just gone

2008-11-24T18:59:00.000-08:00

FABULOUS:

Andrew Tidball's 40th Birthday at Whammy Bar. The Pie-fingered Champion of Local Music outdid hisself. Only the funnest and cutest were in attendance, flush with the rush of the first wave of Spring Parties (Before we all go to so many we can no longer feel our faces). Lushest of all was disco-pig Celia Phillips in all her Molly Ringwald channelling glory. For most of the year the girl is chained to a sewing-machine, pumping out yummy frocks and one-pieces. When she throws on her vintage YSL pumps , her moves make us all look like we're doing the "Chicken Dance" and wearing rags by comparison. Just when the night appeared to be drying out, The Smartest Man In Auckland Jeremy Lynch arrived at the flat we were greeting the dawn at with literally a sack of booze. Timing is everything my friends. Bravo Sir!

The Faggification of supposed "Straight" Boys. Fuck Me. We all know Lesbianism has enjoyed quite the renaissance lately (think local lead-vocalist and gorgeous long-haired shopgirl), it seems the burly pussy-eating boys are following suit. After being bought drinks all night and dodging blatant make-out "lean-ins" from one womanizing filmmaker earlier on in the week, imagine your bloggers delight at being on the receiving end of a straighto's efforts at seduction on Saturday. It all ended rather divinely at the home of yours truly, with the only breeder hiccup being the straighteys suggestion that we offer a menage a trois to my supermodelish female flatemate. Don't think so buddy. Lock up your Boyfriends, ladies. Me and my Posse can teach them a thing or two.....

Wigs, Wigs, Wigs! When I lived in Sydney one of my nearest and dearest worked as what is refereed to as a "Rub N Tug" Girl. Basically this entailed giving lengthy oiled massages to hideous men, and finishing with a "Happy Ending". The upshot of her job however, was that she had an immense variety of wigs at her disposal. Couple this with a healthy drug habit, and the woman would show up to any appointment wearing the most extravagant of hairpieces. I'll never forget a coffee date I had with her in Surrey Hills where she showed up wearing a many-layered Rainbow wig, no doubt made from the hair of starving Thai Children. Her philosophy can and should be applied in Auckland. I wore an aubergine piece twice last week, and it is fair to say I never had more fun, nor looked soooo goood.... JUST DO IT....

VILE:

A certain Shortland Street Celebrity's Birthday Party Guestlist. The man in question is sweet-as-pie, but those celebrating his birth were certainly, certainly not. The Black-clad and Boring of the Retail World were there in force, as well as the despised and hellish so-called 'Thespian' Scenesters. If you're going to tell me all about your latest Theatre Production, at least give me the chance to obtain a rifle to shoot myself with. Better still, use it on yourself....Maybe next life you'll be born with some actual talent.....

The New iPhone. Good On You. You paid like a trillion dollars for some piece of shit you'll either lose in two weeks, get stolen, or will be so outdated come Christmas you'll be embarrassed to pull it out at the Supermarket. Me? I'm gonna stick with my antique Nokia....It's touchscreen too...As In: YOU TOUCH THE BUTTONS AND NUMBERS COME UP ON THE SCREEN....Amazing, Ya?

In Rebuttal of The Family Christmas

2008-11-18T16:44:00.000-08:00

Fuck Me. The tinsley Made In China synthetic decorations are up again. One cant go to the supermarket without being eye-raped by plastic baubles and fat people in red suits. That's right Boys and Girls, The horror of Christmas is upon us once again.

As if thousands of years of folly and murder commited in the name of that absurd cult "Christianity" weren't enough, it appears we in the 21st century are doomed to relive, year after year, the indignity of gladwrapping a boiled egg-garnished salad to take to Auntie Yvette's Xmas Day BBQ.

Well, not for me.

It is from hard-learned experience that I no longer participate in that concentration camp of family gatherings: Christmas Day. The maniacal and delusional conversation designed by Presbyterian grandparents intent on news of my latest "Girlfriend" will no longer pollute my ears on December 25th. By the way Nana and Poppa, I take it up the arse. Deal with it.

Instead, when it comes time to deck the halls, I prefer to embark on a champagne and cocaine bender with close trashbag friends. Call me crazy, but it sure beats whacking on about my hypothetical Tertiary career with people I blatantly have nothing in common with, aside from a little DNA.

Last Christmas for instance, was an exercise in internal organ battery that any seasoned alcoholic would be proud of.

Christmas Eve '07: Its Time To get Dumb at 4:20 K Rd. Donning a pair of Lime-green stockings and red-sequined Trannie Shoes, and gulping down a pill, the Xmas spirit was literally all over me, right through to my grinding jaw. Merrily, I proceeded to get so shamelessly trashed that I could no longer stand, and ended up lying down, head in the lap of the heroically sexually liberated Kain Jones. Fast forward twenty minutes later, and I was crying into his groin about the state of some incredibly misguided joke of a relationship I thought at the time was "True Love", with a blasphemously boring Ponsonby Thespian Type. Merry Christmas.

Hobbling over, heels in hand, to 464 K Rd (a flat I often ended up crashing at, face down on the couch fully clothed) I spent that most magical of Eves dribbling into the upholstery. Waking up throbbing headed-Christmas Day, my partner in chrissy-rejection and I stumbled up the road to the service station to get $2 festive hot dogs to wash down with strong vodkas.

A couple of hours later, we were picked up by a friend with a Volkswagen and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and taken to the Family home of good-time-girl and Marilyn-Monroe a-like Lucy Hunt. As we entered her North Shore Homestead, the whanau were in the midst of a hearty bicker, with Miss Hunt doing most of the screeching and swearing. Slightly awkward, but nothing a stiff gin couldn't doctor.

Around this time, "Tom The German" showed up. None of us really had any idea who he was, except that in a drunken conversation late into some trashy night Lucy had invited him to her Family's Xmas Lunch. His one redeeming feature was that somehow he had an upper-crust English accent which, despite the monstrously mundane dribble that he seemed to think was conversation, vaguely kept us charmed.....

After well and truly outstaying our welcome and parking ourselves into the TV Room watching "Girls of the Playboy Mansion", we piled into the car (complete with intoxicated driver) and headed back to the city. I was dropped off at the place a good friend and champion wine-guzzler was house-sitting. The house was owned by a top Auckland Restaurateur, and as such had a prolific and immensely drinkable cellar, which we made quick work of indulging in. Once we had downed so much booze that we could no longer see, I insisted on sleeping in the Master Bedroom. Of Course.

All in all, the majority of those couple of days was a blissful blurr, in which I was never without a drink or a cigarette....And that, readers, is what Christmas is all about. Just Say No to Horrid distant relatives soul-destroying family functions. Don't be fooled: The only time "Family" should ever pass your lips in the silly season is if you are saying "Lets go to Family Bar"....I'll see you there....After, of course, the sure-to-be-glorious Sohomo "Lost Boys" Christmas Eve Party....

Emptying the Ashtray: The Fabulous and The Vile of the week just gone

2008-11-15T11:57:00.000-08:00

FABULOUS:

Hella Heart-throbbish SuperCouple James Nola( Red 11) and Chiran Ranjit (Alleluya) wearing matching Tweedle-Dee hats at Pull bar. Too much boys, and can you please get a webcam in your bedroom? It was the first of new monthly club-night "Alice in Space Wonderland", organized by the above fags and smashing newish designer Serena Fagence. Everyone came around 1am, trashed and overdressed, brimming with fabulous.

This is too funny. In the "Some people have an arseload of time to talk shit" category, a rumour regarding your blogger has been detected. Apparently I'm seeing someone! The lucky gent in question is one Jack Gibb Seabrook. Alas, it's not true. In fact, the closest we have ever come is passing out fully clothed on a certain badly-blond ed supermarket heiresses bed drinking Bourbon-on-rocks. In any case, Gibby is certainly one of the handsomest, well-dressed and well-read people in town....not to mention well-endowed in the purse. It is encouraged to all fling-seekers to make the most of young Seabrook. He returns to Waiouru for the continuance of Lieutenant training early next year. And no, that's not a porno-shoot. Its actually THE ARMY. Find him cheek-boned-to-fuck on the door of Sohomo till then..... As for the gossip? I Don't pay attention to what they say my dears, I just measure it in inches....

Headpieces for fucking Africa! Anyone with a noggin worth decorating had some sort of tassely shit dangling over their eyebrows this week. Brilliant. Most memorably Miss Hannah C Fields' sparkly-necklace on her crown, like some sort of Pagan Flapper.......Notable also is the constant presence of a strap of something delightful wrapped around DJ/Graphic designer/model/Ostrich Farmer's spawn Kylie McKenzies skull. Think Tutankhamen, Little Edie Beale, Candy Darling and The Charleston.....

VILE:

The Bum end of the Blonde epidemic. It was all fun and games when everyone rushed off to bleach the buggery hell out of their hair in some sort of Pet Shop Boys/Edie Sedgewick latch-on, but now the ghosts of chemical colouring past have reared their brittle heads. Suck Shit Bitches....Your locks look like a poor mans wig....if even Donatella can't get it right, what did you expect?

Upon leaving Honey Bar, post Martini's, a fagnutsy friend and I found the streets to be littered with strings of shredded paper. Naturally we found this hilarious, and commented as such. Horrifically the bouncer retorted with "Family Bar is up that way". Now, yes. Perhaps I am a little camp. Yes, I was wearing a black shiny vinyl Herne Bay Housewife handbag. That's a gay boy's prerogative. If I want to wear a butt-plug shoved up my arse for all to see than that's my prerogative too. But Never, Never, Never is it acceptable for a bouncer whom is employed to ensure the safety of punters, indeed is paid by our patronage to make disgusting, discriminatory calls like that. Of course, my response was "What the fuck is this, Nazi Germany?" -only a scufflish pig-headed mumble was audible......Acknowledging the doorman's Pacific Island heritage, I followed through with "Well Mangere's that way". I'm pretty sure he knew that anyway......You wanna play the prejudice game with a middle-class white boy? Babes, we invented oppression.....

Hawk-Eye: The Fabulous and The Vile of the week just gone

2008-11-08T18:44:00.000-08:00

FABULOUS:

The delicious, divine, trannie- DJ Wandas Birthday at Tabac on Wednesday. The woman has the set-list worthy of the most prodigal muso-nerd and the wardrobe of a young Elizabeth Taylor. Perfectly she sits propped in the DJ Booth, sans headphones, with a red light beaming on her face a la Blaire Witch Project, belting out Kate Bush and rare Bronski Beat tracks. The perfect mixture of Apocalypse, sex, glamour, hell and good grooming...............Also it seems possible Tabac have the most attractive and relevant bar staff in Auckland.....

Jo Galvin and Leah Forsyth's new Gallery Space "Liberty" on Symonds Street. Well Fucking Done Lady! The place teemed with the Pretty and Young, with enough Booze to satisfy the most Piss-headed, served by the swellest looking boy in Zambesi slouch-pants, rosary beads, and come-fuck-me-eyes.....Eats were by Favourite Faggy Ponsonby Pizza-man (and incidentally owner of the loveliest Penis this side of Vincent Gallo) Johnny of il Buco.......Nice touch.....

Charlie Ashes as yet unreleased single "Come Back Lover". Stolen by your blogger from the home of groundbreakingly hot Les couple Mailee and Hannah, the whole song tinkles and glitters with addictive and polished Pop sensibilities....Soon to be heard on the lips of every forward thinking musically enlightened person with a scrap of taste....

Meggie, Meggie, Meggie at Chelsea Boys. Storming in like a Bull in a china-shop draped in purple Miss Crabb, the bitch could outdance Jennifer-fucking-Beals. One day we will all be fashioning statues in her likeness and kissing her toes.....

VILE:

The new haircut of Horrid Homo and some-time Drag Queen we will call "Behind-your-back-Barry". It appears years of bitter, low-rent scathing remarks are finally making this Fag look as terrible on the outside as he is on the inner...Paybacks a Bitch right? The development of an extra chin isn't helping either.....

Ink and Coherent Bar. For Fucks sake where are the Terrorists when you need them? The creme of Aucklands Cunt Class gather here and seem to conspire to create the WORST night for anyone who walks through the door....even the Karaoke Room doesn't save it...Fundamentalist Muslims, this is a Sitting Duck if Ive ever seen one......

"Exam" time. Please, Please, Please Shut Up. If you're stupid enough to think it entirely vital to pass English 101 "Desire: A fundamental Question?" then its you're funeral, but don't bore me to tears with your test time-table. I really don't give a shit, and shouldn't you be highlighting photocopied bits of paper at Starbucks or something?

A Homos Time In The Court Of Law Part Two: The Reckoning

2008-11-06T18:12:00.000-08:00

So I stole a fucking pie, got caught, was given a Hearing date.

The night before coincided with a heavily medicated binge. This took place at a ridiculously fabulous upward-coming photographers house, a girl whom, with the aide of a bit of old money and a highly successful divorce, ended up sniffing the good part of $40k in six months. She was never thinner though.....

My other comrade that evening/morning/few days was Auckland's Best Dressed and Most High cutie/fashionista we will affectionately call "the Rooster". Shes fondly known for her vintage Moschino, Furs, Heels-on-the-Beach and being able to get a ticket to anything at Fashion Week due to her food-catering family, of which each member is more eccentric than the last, brilliantly.

Giddy with our own Fabulousness and other substances, it was natural that we stayed up all night, scraping the mirror right up to an hour before I was due in court.

The Rooster was to accompany me. At the last second, she threw on a black & white striped dress, massive black hat and an even bigger pair of sunglasses and signature stomping heels. Basically an outfit for a day at the races, if people actually dressed well at the tracks. I chucked on an outfit from said photographers rack, which on reflection was quite clearly a woman's blouse. Oops.

And we sauntered off to Court. I at this stage had visions of a glamorous day at the gorgeous Supreme Court, all turret's and steeples and marble. Not so. Imagine your bloggers surprise when, Horror of Horrors, he was slopped in to the District Court with the hoi poll oi on Albert Street? Now surely that is the more sordid crime! Lino & Veneer in a non-ironic context? Eeek!

I was appointed a Lawyer, who turned out to be a regular customer from the sorely missed cafe Brazil on K Rd where I used to work. Of course. Officially I was a Law Abiding Boy, so I had the option of using my diversion, which I did. The whole thing would be over once I made a $300 donation to the New Zealand AIDS Foundation, appropriately, and sent a letter of apology to the convenience store where I committed this grave injustice.

Now I'm a very busy person. Moreover, all the money that I have I need to spend on Dinners, Drinks and Cigarettes....you understand. As time went by I was lulled into a false sense of security. They, surely, would never catch up with me.....

I went to Vanuatu. No warrant for my arrest. I went to Sydney. No cuffs at Customs. Well! Phew! That was a Freebie!

I had moved House. To my panic, two police officers showed up at my old place looking for me....Fuck.

They caught up with me in the end, when, completely trashed, I got into a Taxi after leaving my bag in the care of a friend. Fessing up, the Taxi driver took me straight to the Police Station where, upon a check of my passport, which hellishly was in my front pocket, the coppers found my secret shame on the records. They had charged me under a mispelt version of my name, hence getting through customs.

So once again, I called Mother. A $3227 Lawyer Fee and a $152.20 (inclusive of cost of pie) donation to the Salvation army and I got entirely off, no conviction.

But I ask you, Sweeties, If I hadn't been able to afford a Lawyer (well, if Mum couldn't) would things have been the same?

Homophobia Rages.....in Ponsonby???

2008-10-06T19:34:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

Upon a late night wander home after watching the genius jizz 'n' buttfuck fest Shortbus at a friends house, a middle range Japanese imported car pulled up beside me.

Naturally, I was wearing wide legged pleated Zambesi trousers, a brown velvet blazer, beige pashmina, and a cutey little woollen striped beanie with a pom-pom.

The car pulling up did not concern me. Hey, I was in Ponsonby, that liberal, gentrified to fuck parody of Auckland Suburban Life. Surely there was to be no hollering from passenger seats that a gentleman like myself could expect on Queen Street in such an outfit.

In the car, a gaggle of pretty young girlie things in dresses and Toni & Guy dye-jobs giggled loudly. In the front seat, in all her Takapuna Grammer Glory, an early twenty-something slag yelled out to me, holding a condom:

"We're doing a promotional hand-out of condoms. Put in a Vagina, not an Arsehole!"

The only clear response was "Go back to the suburbs....Like you have a Vagina, Honey"

Sometimes I wish I had AIDS so I could bleed over these useless fucking bags of pampered princesses and show them what prejudice is really about.....

Very Important Thoughts On Fashion

2008-10-01T06:30:00.000-07:00

Glen & Amanda Hunt & Shaun Thomas McGill Present The Deteriorating Nature of New Zealand Fashion courtesy of 1am Magazine www.youtube.com/1ammagazine

A Homos Times in The Court Of Law Part One

2008-10-01T04:28:00.000-07:00

It goes without saying that I have done many things in my life that have warranted arrest. Public Fornication, fraud, vandalism, a myriad of substance abuses and obviously intoxication rank high on my list of debaucheries. Arguably Date Rape too I'm sure, though I maintain I was at least as trashed as those Ive supposedly victimised. These have proved, so far, to avoid, amazingly, the detection of the Law.

One night two years ago however, all this changed. I found myself thrust into a faceless, nameless, ludicrous system some in the Eastern Suburbs call Justice. And why, sweet readers? Well i guess I'll admit it. Please don't judge me or anything....I know its pretty bad, but

I Stole A Pie.

Not just any pie, nay, as the police report attests, but a Mrs Mac's Chicken and Vegetable Home Style Pie, valued at $2.20. And I got caught. Bad.

I Hear you ask Why? Why, Babes, Why? Why oh Why Did you steal that Pie?

So let me explain.

A gentleman finds, at certain hours in a well-endowed social life, a meal is necessary to sustain his indulgences. I mean that i was bloody trashed, and needed to eat so bad I was gonna vomit. I also needed to continue my partying, after some nameless piss-peddling opening at Artspace.

So, though the details remain still sketchy in my Becks and Bubbles soaked mind, I went into K RD Mart, stalked to the "ban marie" , grabbed the famous pie, and simply walked out. I didn't consider, however, the Surveillance cameras. Around an hour later, as I was scurrying off to Suite Bar, a Police Car pulled up beside me on the street. Panicking, I started to run, and of course, two police officers launched from the vehicle and pursued an energetic chase after your frantic and mortified blogger.

After catching me ( I was wearing inappropriate shoes for such a chase) they proceeded to cuff me. I will confess that in light of my slight and seemingly harmless appearance I suffered no large amount of brutality one may expect from the burly hands of the Law.....

BUT THEY CUFFED ME!!!!!

Yes, a rough manacle around my sweet little suburban wrists. The Shame. Any pretence of accepting arrest with a scrap of dignity went out the window. The duration of the car trip to the station I yelped "I want to speak to a Lawyer, I want to speak to my Mother" over and over and over again, no doubt in a slurring and barely cohesive manner. In fact, the whole trip I was constantly questioned about my actions over the course of the night, to which my answer was always the above chant. I guess a lifetime of American cop-telly really does impact on the delusion of ones rights when one is arrested.

Once at the station, I absurdly insisted that I had AIDS, A private-cell obtaining mechanism I had seen on Party Monster. Incredibly, though the boys in blue did seem skeptical, this actually worked. Once in a cell, they processed me relatively quickly, finger-printed me, and finally let me call my mother.

At this stage it was about 2am. On the phone, absolutely pissed as a chook, I called Mummy, who has been a member of Alcoholics Anonymous for about four years. Whoops. She was in Sydney trying to enjoy a weekend break. I relayed the entire story, including the AIDS subplot, which at this time I felt was completely hilarious. It's fair to say she found it less funny.

Upon receiving a court appearance date and being released, I went down to Suite Bar, where Matt from North Shore Pony Club was doing a set.

And that, sweet readers, is only the beginning of this affair. Oh yes, theres more, if you can muster belief. For no man, woman nor scenester is above the Great Might of The Law.........

TO BE CONTINUED......

The B.H.S.F

2007-09-20T22:10:00.000-07:00

welcome to my blog

An ever-strained Hawk-eye ( stained red and loose skinned from all-nighters) on notable Folk of Folley , I endevour to whisper and hiss vague rumours, innuendo and bitch-faced secrets at burnt-rubber pace, Passing the Parcel from the glossy mouthed Pampered and Dissatisfied through the Faggy Filter of my own vernacular and churned onto the page in front of you.

I hope you like it.

But don't expect much.

I'm Just here for a Middle Class Bohemian whine, air kisses, a cuddle,a roll your own cig, a straw for your piccolo and to lend twenty bucks to put in the Pokies, my lay-by at Jaime or just make it a hundred and i wont molest your brother, But no promises K?