Question, with a Destiny’s Child-style intonation: Is there, or is there not, or will there be, or was there, a worse way to spend one’s time in London’s Glittering London than looking at wax effigies of the famouses in a hanger-style warehouse bumper-to-trout with leggings-Ugg atrocities a stone’s throw from Marylebone High Street with its one-off boutiques, Waitrose, Conran brick ‘n’ brack, Scandia, high-income gays and the silver-coiffed gent who propositioned us for sex outside The Providores and Tapa Room?
Really, is there?
When, elsewhere, there are the mens to be touched, booze to be drunk, gay eyebrows to be severely critiqued and cartwheels to be executed for light relief.
(It’s non-stop, it really is.)
Just look at Robert Pattinson (RPatz? Jesus wept) having been given the Madame Tussaud’s treatment. Honestly, that Madame Tussaud must be laughing her tits off on whatever bejewelled cloud she’s swishing about on, that desperate munters the world over are so gagging to get within an inch of fame-and-its-associates that they’ll happily froth at the fanny in front of a fake version thereof. Especially when, if you stand outside of Chariot’s Roman Spa long enough, you can see all manner of famous walk through its doors.
Why, only yesterday whilst pewed up on Old Compton Street when really we should have been working – though we were playing the ‘You HAVE to shag one of the next ten people who walk past, east to west’ game which is hard work – we saw four whole famouses. That new Doctor Who bloke, that football manager bloke, that bloke off that advert and someone who we always confuse with Dexter Fletcher.
Who the fuck needs Madame Tussauds when you’ve got all that on your doorstep?