Benjy Wright’s Celebrity Diary #2
Have you been wondering where Benjy Wright is? Well so have we! The unreliable trollop has spent the last month shacked up with some old rich cougar. We heard the details, but unfortunately due to a little super injuction we cannot share. He did, however, get back a couple of weeks ago and has decided again to share an insight into his enviable life. Oh and he’s also grown some face-fluff, feel free to compliment him:
Monday: It has to be said I’m dribbling my special sauce all down the grooves in my chords with excitement over what’s to come next couple of nights, not one but two early week DJ residencies at Carlus’ “Grooving Foetus” indie night. It’s an amazing place, because it’s like what the past would like if it was actually in the future, loads of pocket watches on the wall and gas lamps with energy saving bulbs. I’m taking my iPod touch with me instead of a load of CDs purely because I’ve got the bass to a perfect level to make sure that any girls stood next to the speaker are jiggling just the right amount that they don’t get suspicious but also don’t shit themselves. Last time that happened I had to pay a fine and wasn’t allowed back ’till I’d bought the bar manager a new pair of flip flops.
Tuesday: I do bloody love Carlus’ right but the last few times I’ve been there there’s been nowhere near enough girls in. Every time I took a look up from the decks after half nine, the dance floor turned more and more into a massive ‘junk yard’. Considering their signature drink tastes like a fruits of the forest dessert you’d think there’d be a few more hairy bear-traps swaying around closer to closing time. Not that I really know how things ended last night, last I remember some pretty young thing wouldn’t leave me alone until I licked her armpit. It’s amazing the tastes and smells that a Dove Roller Ball won’t cover up, can still taste a mix of moisturiser, sweet, blackberries and stubble. No idea what the fuckity happened after that but at least it wasn’t as bad as the last time as was there when, as you night of seen on Face Space, I crawled out from under the covers, and a girl who I can’t name for legal and credibility reasons, smeared with taramosalata and wearing a plant pot for a hat. I reckon I’ll keep that on though; I’ve always been at the severed, bleeding, pre-cauterizated edge of fashion.
Thursday: I think there was something dodgy on that girl’s armpit, my stomach’s been spinning like a washing machine and my arse is going off like Krakatoa. You’d think I’d repainted the toilet bowl. And some of the floor…
Thursday (One week later): Unless you’d really enjoy nothing more than reading about my glamorous week of spraying from both ends like I’d been squeezed like Satan’s stress ball then, I didn’t think it was worth updating much this past week. Besides I had to get the laptop serviced after I threw up on it whilst trying to cheer myself up by shaking hands with the one eyed bandit. Possibly not the worst the keyboard has seen but certainly the some of the hardest to wipe off and the smell permeating from under the space bar became off-putting incredibly quickly. Still, I’m feeling much better now you’ll be glad to hear, so onwards and upwards.
Saturday: Tried to get out and about yesterday but I took one look at my wardrobe and threw up again so it was clearly a no-goer of a day. Tonight should hopefully be a turning point though, Miquita Oliver is having all the past and present T4 presenters round for a “farmer’s market” theme party, although that might just be so Steve Jones and Rick Edwards don’t have to buy any new shirts. There’s also a chance she’s only doing it to apologise for what happened at her Oscar night party, after all there’s only so much Gareth Gates songs any reasonable crowd can put up with being played on a loop over a picture of Collin Firth, and all that crying in the linen cupboard with a bottle of Gin didn’t help. Seriously, you can’t take Grimshaw anywhere.
