Sunshine

Forgive me if I sound like a twelve year old übernerd wielding a telescope from my crotch but last night I had a Star Wars dream and it was awesome. Rebel spaceships, Death Star planetoids, drunken Wookie encounters, a fleeting glimpse of Carrie Fisher wearing a Jabba The Hut by Tom Ford gown.
You get the picture.
I woke up with semi-soaked sheets and a hangover the size of the Alderaan ‘mishap’.
I lay the blame squarely at Warwick’s feet, a dear friend who hosted a hump day dinner party for a half dozen homos who repaid the favour by getting plastered and gorging themselves on Martin Boetz’s Longrain beef shins.
While knocking back a generous Tanqueray and tonic I was asked by one of the toddler gays if I remembered my first Mardi Gras party.
“Actually I do,” I replied, “ten years ago I fell in lust with someone wearing hotpants and angel wings and have cried myself to sleep every night since.”
(Uncertain facial tic from questioner.) “And the most recent one?”
“I rode my BMX to the party and was stopped by a cop for not wearing my helmet. I begged him to show mercy because I’d just gelled my hair.”
(Fuck. I do sound like a twelve year old.)














An albino lemon meringue pie was served for dessert because Warwick ‘forgot’ to add the egg yolks.
My feeling is he hates anything the colour of sunshine.
Also full of vitriol was the adorable Stuart who has cut diplomatic ties with Grindr ever since a Margaret Cho impersonator turned up at his front door instead of the much anticipated Czech Republic math student.
God I love the first day of summer.