Hi. I'm the BSD. Nice to meet you. The pleasure is all yours. Come inside, have some wine, grab a bottle of gin, a crack rock- whatever makes you happy. Would you like me to light the fireplace? No? Are you cold? Can I grab you a comforter? Perhaps an ambien? Oh, you want uppers. Let me see here.... I've got some blow and some Xenadrine. Something stronger? Good luck, bitch! Here we go.... drink it in.
With all the hot ladies at the Mulberry party riding the horse, I took the opportunity to hop on myself. The Claridge's hotel has seen its fair amount of mounting and holding on for dear life (trust me), but this was an whole other animal. And by animal, I mean beautiful opportunity for the BSD to show the ladies, in person, how great he is at mounting and riding. Balloons everywhere, Kaya Scodelario, my future girlfriend*, Daisy Lowe, and that crazy Sarah Harding person from that band with the girls in it, looking like she was drunk off her ass. She smelled like my hotel room.
Yes, occasionally the BSD will wear sunglasses at night, but only because Frank Sinatra suggested it was better to keep oneself distanced from the public; if they saw your eyes, they could see your soul and you thereby left yourself vulnerable. Although one of the BSD's greatest attributes is his sensual vulnerability, when I hung out with Oswald, it seemed appropriate. We talked about the old times, when we'd galavant around London, hop on a midnight train to Paris, arrive, drunken and disorderly, finished bottle of Absinthe in hand, ladies on each arm, ready to head to Le Baron to dance the night away. Maybe drop some sausage in the corner, maybe Old Bay it a little bit. The BSD needs a drink, a smoke, and some more episodes of Absolutely Fabulous. The flash really brings out the blue tint in my fro.
So happy to see Olivier again, I nearly pissed myself with excitement. But, as we all know, the BSD doesn't lose his cool, he just temporarily misplaces it.
Again, sunglasses inside. Kemp demanded I keep them on, both during the photo opp and the sex. She's a tiger. Raawwwrrr, baby! The BSD approves. What a piece.
Julia and I walked the Red Carpet for something...
...and so did Bee and I.
As you can see, London is going swimmingly, and the BSD is off again on another adventure, perhaps to the Green Man off Oxford Street, perhaps to the old stomping grounds in Greenwich, perhaps to the Bricklayer's Arms at 74 Charlotte Street. Because the BSD is a man of the world. A man for all times. A man for the ages. A man for the Ladies. A man who desperately needs a drink. Bartleby!! You fucking louse! Where's the gin?
Ah. That's better. Let's all raise our collective glasses to love, not the love you read about in storybooks or see in movies, but the love that takes place on staircases at 4 in the morning in public.
* You can apply the "my future girlfriend" remark to either of the ladies whose names surround it.
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