A Big Butt And A Smile

Went to the local yokel raving spot last night, because a) we could get in free, and b) after a week at The Times, I was in need of a drink and a chance to get footloose. I got home around 9pm from seeing my new baby god-daughter, who's looking good and gaining weight. Parents look well too - not the usual post-baby train wrecked, shell of a human being. Spoke to Suzie Wong, who confirmed we were on the guest list, and some friends celebrating a hen night would be down there. As it wasn't a big pre-planned night out, I wasn't really too fussed about what I would be wearing, until I started looking and realised I didn't have anything to wear.

I have three dresses out of commission, last week's gum on the booty incident dress, the white strapless figure hugger that got trashed on the stag night, and the black pleated bodice prom dress I managed to wash the pleats out of. It said you could put it in the machine. It's okay, it only cost my Dad £135. I have a few other dresses which I've had to retire on the grounds of 'sending the wrong message', so it was clear it was time to get creative.

I pulled out the Chloe lookey-likey flared jeans from TopShop I bought two summers ago - and still have not worn. Reason being, I bought the exact same style in white needlecord, and wear that pair more. I paired it with the gold sequinned Primark vest, layered over a white vest, and the teal blue velvet military jacket, again from Primark. But, I thought the white ones would have looked more dressed up. Unfortunately they were in the laundry basket. I went and pulled them out, but realised they were in there for a reason so put them back. Then I remembered I had a pair of white hipster jeans I bought in a Gap sale for £10. Although they were a size 16, my size, they didn't fit at all when I bought them but progress has been made, I can actually do them up now. But realised I wouldn't be able to sit down in public without exposing my crack, and they may split if I tried to 'whine and go down'. Also, I felt like I was wearing one Primark item too many. One is a trend, two is a dependency. With it being the local yokel rave spot, I couldn't be certain I wouldn't bump into a fellow Primarkanista (copyright BJ). I just couldn't risk it.

My second pick was a black wrap top, with tiered cap sleeves that dips quite low in the front from ToSho, and a black 'essential this season' pencil skirt with a 'scandal split' in the front and the back. Although I bought the skirt four years ago from ToSho for Clarke's 8th fancy dress birthday party when all the adult helpers dressed as schoolgirls. I do love me some Britney Spears. The Bobo Dread has video footage of me falling on my back with my legs in the air in said skirt after spectactularly failing to do the limbo. The things you do for your kids. I tried the outfit on, and asked Clarkie what she thought. She said: "Your bum looks massive in that skirt mum." That'll do then.


I tried the pink suede round-toe shoes with a fat ribbon on the side from Poste Mistress, bought in Manchester last year - still haven't worn them. Clarke said they didn't go. So went for the Kurt Geiger courts again. The ones that hurt after an hour. But they look sooo good. Even the doorman said so. After applying several pieces of tit tape to secure the top, you can't wear a bra with it - well you can, but it'll be exposed and I wasn't doing that look - tonight. It was more of a Maggie Gyllenhaal in The Secretary meets Jennifer Lopez look. Sober and sexy, accessorised with a big butt and a smile.


So we get to the club, and make our entrance 'TA DAAAA'! My friend S always accuses me of liking to make an entrance when I go out. I think I must have been an old movie star in a past life. I grew up watching the films of Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Faye Dunaway and Audrey Hepburn, and love that old movie star glamour. You takes your pleasures where you finds 'em. And after a few weeks languishing in self-pity, receiving bills and bank charges I can't pay, and working for nada I was ready for my motherfucking close-up.

The hen party was in full swing, and the brandy was flowing. Saw a few people I knew, including 'stone the crows' Martha Daley. I was shocked to see her because she hates ghetto nightclubs. But she was there celebrating her cousin's birthday. Her fine-ass Jamaican cousin was there too. He seemed pleased to see me. As I was to see him. Shame the motherfucker went and got himself married with children. No one can dance like a man from 'Jamrock' so we paired up and whined for JA to the bashment music. Thankfully the skirt had lycra in it, otherwise I woulda buss out of it like the She-Hulk. He said: "For an English gyal, you know all de tune dem." Little did he know I had to be taught how to whine my waist by my sister (the tune was Bandolero) when I was in my early twenties and had spent too many years listening and dancing to hip-hop.


While I was 'gettin' on bad' with 'Jamrock', my sometime dancing partner (and no that is not a euphemism for a bit of the other) turned up and was watching me which led to a slightly awkward moment. For him. After I ain't got no ring on my finger. He was alright after a few conciliatory 'crubs' (dances). As DJ Mistri says: "USE DEM". In between playing records and buying Martha Daley a drink Mistri also found time to compliment me on the perkiness of my breasts. Cheeky sod. But shamefully, I admit I loved it really. I have a bit of a complex about my Outspans - and if enlargements didn't involved anaesthetic, scalpels, two pouches of whatever they use these days, and 10 grand, I might consider boosting them up a size or two.

All in all, it was an unexpectedly good night at da club. Two dancing partners, four drinks, or was it five, and a lift home. I'm all set for another week of indentured labour on The Times. Hollaaaa!