Saturday 25th April

Disaster.

Utter fucking pissflap queen catastrophe.

Shitey, shitey, shit, shit.

As if my life weren't enough of a giant dog turd, Cordelia goes and makes it worse.

She's supposed to be my girlfriend. I would really pissed off with her if she knew that she was my girlfriend.

I suppose I should begin at the beginning.

I had gone round to Bob's on Friday and a rather shaky pretext. The real reason of my visit was to ogle Cordelia. I walked into the room where she had been sleeping at Chris's invitation. I was more than a little surprise to find not only Cordelia wrapped in a duvet but also another girl I had yet to meet cocooned in a second duvet. I am not accustomed to girls and semi-naked ones even less. A hundred thoughts scrambled out of my brain as I tried to decide what to say, not least of them were-

"I can't help noticing that wrapped up that way, you look pretty helpless"

"Hey, where are the rest of your clothes?"

"Is this strictly legal?"

"Is there room in that cocoon for me?"

"Are your arms inside that cocoon for a reason or are you just playing with yourself?"

Thankfully, the question that actually placed itself in my mouth was- "Er... Who the fuck are you?".

I realised that this was a little less than Noel Coward would have managed as soon as the phrase left my mouth. Indeed, it was downright rude. Still perhaps she would recognise it as a quotation from 'The Who'. Even if it had not been intentional. I told Chris he was wanted upstairs and legged it, dignity in tatters. 

I further embarrassed myself in one of those horrible moments when being so determined not to say one thing out pops another. So intent was I on not calling Kirsty, Chris's girlfriend and semi-dressed one from earlier, "Cock-Thirsty Kirsty", I constantly referred to her as "thirsty".

Bugger.

Still she appeared to regard me as a harmless victim of care in the community. An opinion I managed to bolster (in her warped mind at least) by commenting that Bob in his strange alert stance for watching the T.V. was in many way most reminiscent of a Mere-cat. Then I giggled uncontrollably for about thirty minutes which I have found is often a good way of impressing girls you haven’t met before.

Anyway, I can put off no longer to vouchsafe mon petit disaster. The Cordelia beast herself had attempted to have a little dig at me.

She decided to tell monsieur taxi driver that I was a paedophile. Hence his attempt to drive a car over me. Cunt.

Did Jesus not say bugger.

I will have to go into hiding to avoid being run over.

I mean what have I ever done to her (except the things listed above)!

Bitch.

I’d no longer be in love with her if she didn’t have such good legs.

But she does so I am.

Damn it now I know how Rushdi feels.

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