rosyrockets.com

Chicago Flash Mob

Peace to my niggaz 27ANDAHALF P, Da Ponk, nuGraf TAG, Fred Dred, Chief Wingnut and Joey Deekon at Chicago Mobs, without whom Gary Wilmot, Papa Lazarou, Ainsley Harriot, Derek Griffiths and Rusty Lee would not be on a gangsta hit list.

Ro Z

I had but fifty cents

I had but fifty cents on Saturday - and yet, courtesy of Sue and Heidi, behaved like a Withnail/Creosote hybrid - and didn't suffer for it in the slightest.

Heidi's photography exhibition. She sold one of my favourites almost straight away - an infra red photo of Aunty Em's house. Free wine. Four games of foosball with Anis, her eerie companion providing commentary.

The Buffet King. More red wine, and three healthy platefuls of the following:

chicken, pork, beef, shrimp, broccoli, bamboo shoots, carrot, mussels, chili chicken, lemon chicken wings, chow mein, egg fried rice, seaweed, spring rolls, pancakes, duck, deep fried chicken, squid and deep fried pork, and then two bowls of watermelon and ice cream.

An hour's nap, followed by fresh coffee and a joint. This was perhaps crucial to my longevity, and to Sunday's good health.

The Pub. A pint of Guinness before we got a round of gold tequilas in. I met a lovely gentleman called Stanley, and we talked about bas couture, Viv Stanshall and Hal Hartley, and I blushed every time I said "Aye" because one of his was glass.

The Venue. Vodka and orange, Magners, tequila and Budvar. Heidi and I got chatted up by picture-book Australians. Hers said: "You're sexy", to which she jeered, "You're Australian" before running for the hills. Later on, he grabbed my arse while overtaking me on the stairs, rendering him eligible for a quick "Coatesy Walk"*, which I awarded immediately, to his dismay. My Australian was far less forward. His name was Rick, and it took him a surprisingly long time to ask whether I was miking fan of him.

Rosy: "What are your likes and dislikes?"
Rick: "Having a good time".
Rosy: *appears to be genuinely crestfallen* "Oh - I don't really like having a good time. You really like having a good time? Would you say, though, that you dislike not having a good time? Oh, dear. Well, what would you say were your likes and dislikes?"
Heidi: Quick! Come upstairs! The pig's stripping off!

- For the pig upstairs was doing a striptease**.

Heather's Party. Grass vodka, grass Schnapps, whiskey and wine until breakfast time. A gentleman named Mickey and I spent a considerable amount of time saying to one another, "That's so weird - I was just going to say that", and not much else. I slept from about nine to two, and woke up feeling ABSOLUTELY FINE. So there.

In other news, I will shag anyone who buys me this.

* Coatesy Walk(n). Nineteen years ago. Christopher Coates: petulant Dresden piglet, a head taller than me at least. "I've got more stamps than you," he remarked. "I've got a carrier bagful at home, actually," I replied. Without batting an eyelid, he declared: "I've got a binbag full. My uncle gave me them.". He had to be punished for his idle boasting. Grasping his arms firmly from behind, I goosestepped across the classroom, pistonning my bony little knee up his arse with every step. As time went on, the mere contemplation of Coatesy's tendency to apocrypha could trigger a "Coatesy Walk".

** He really was: I'll post a "pic" before long.

Why was I not made of stone, like thee?

A torrent of gurgling self-abuse a week ago. A crimson flood due a week from now. A romantic cloudburst and a damp hiatus. A tete-a-tete during which I endeavour to focus on my resolve, my upper lip, my drink; but my mournfully shrugging willy is stiffer than any of the three. It's high tide and the buoys won't ring until you rock the boat. I have an interview for a "real job" coming up. I'll have to remind Guy Pierce to tattoo "You're not temping any more so don't call everyone a cunt and dash out looking for gin after two hours" on my thigh.

cadillac of the skies

This is a cover I made for Jimbo B's sky diving journal. His likes include wearing green velvet suits, and sky-diving. Preferably both at the same time!!!!!1!

This weekend I mostly went to birthday parties, and watched flims with Drinky Crow, who was enraged at Chakotay's performance in Night of the Comet. Hopping mad, I tell you.
I've also been getting back into my livejournal (ohcalcutta). I haven't told anyone about it before, as I hate livejournals, but I do dip in for the joy of the user groups. Pirate slash, Earthbound tips, gentlemen's clubs. Better than a kick in the teeth.

Mood: Bold

Music: I'm listenin' to me tapes. Go away, Mum!

31/02/02 19:09

I just checked my friends' live journal entries for today. James Joyce has just had a dump, and Joe Orton got up at seven this morning to watch the Hoobs. On today's episode, Groove was wondering what it was that made him special. For a while he thought that his individuality might be sufficiently represented by his physical appearance, and by his collection of trash. The Live Journalists seem to share this view. I am my pierced labia, Manga collection and eating disorder. I am who I shag.

The Tiddly Peeps soon cleared things up for Groove, introducing the concept of "personality". For instance, Groove is funny, greedy, and acts like he's stoned, but he's really only trying to impress nostalgia-crippled Gen X. Hey... me too!! ^_^ But who am I to dis the live journalists? Who is Rosy Rockets? That's easy. She is a supervillain. And she's in a bit of a glass house here because not only did she recently write a Zelda walkthrough, but she knows the words to the rap from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.

Comment on this

It's quite funny when you get stoned 'cause you get a bit hungry, don't you? haha

Bah, forget the Downies. I walk past Purple Haze sandwich bar, of "you can totally smoke joints in here" infamy, on the way to work. Thought it had closed down? So did I - this morning I had a chat with Johnny, one of the filthy drug peddling owners, and he said that everything was running smoothly until the evil media started making a fuss, falsely claiming that the place was tantamount to a crack den and had been shut down. They've hardly made any money since - the regular customers appear to comprise two old men and me. At the time of the two arrests, worried that this kind of thing would begin to proliferate throughout Scotland, Glasgow Cathcart MP Tom Harris asked Tony Blair: "Will you agree with me that what Glasgow needs is more jobs, not more drugs?" Oh the irony - the wee lass who put tommy sauce on my breakfast will be out of a job soon, thanks to Lionel's evil cousin.

So they're selling up, for not very much money. Luckily they've found a lawyer that hates the BBC, so justice might get a look in. So next time you're in the area, elbow your way through the art students, coffin dodgers and Tasha Slappers on North Junction street and say hello. Or "NO VICTIM NO CRIME", or whatever these hippies are embroidering on their rissoles these days.

Emergency: Patient arriving with bloaty head.
In other news, Peter Molyneux is at it again. Please let it be better than Black And White.

Save Camphill

The international Camphill Movement takes its name from Camphill House at Milltimber in Aberdeen. This was the original base established in 1939, when Dr Karl König and his colleagues found refuge in Aberdeen having escaped the Nazi regime in Germany. The Newton Dee community was established in 1945.

"Assuredly, if the road was going to be routed across an old battlefield, or through a hedgehog sanctuary, there would be weeping and gnashing of teeth, protests from eco-warriers and the rest. They should find somewhere else to put their road."
- Jeremy Paxman

Timmy Mallett's brother, Martin, has been a resident in Newton Dee for 20 years. Timmy does not pause or hesitate as he says: "I care deeply for my brother and there must be another route for this road. Destroying the Camphill community is too high a price to pay, even for an important project like this."

clown and pout #2

Fit the Third: In which I mine for gold, and then put on a show right here in the barn.

We're at 12 Bar on Denmark Place. Tam buys me a bacon roll and we try to spot the lizards David Icke warned us about in his book. It looks like we're pretty safe, though ('ware Buck Palace! HP Sauce and Golly Badges, by cold-blooded appointment to the Queen! Skill 9, Stamina 10!).

Johny points out the church where (I imagine) Link learned the Song of Time. It looks onto a popular night-time methadone hotspot (like the zombies in Hyrule Market), and various places where the Sex Pistols used to hang out.

We have a look through the books that Johny and Tam have brought for the show. Tam and Claudine will pluck bits out and create a quasi-dialogue over a leftfieldy backdrop... like Blue Jam, to the untrained ear. I would hate to clip the angel's wings, so listen for yourself: 1-2pm Fridays, www.resonancefm.com for details. The highlight for me is the very nice violinist, who makes wond'rous noises with his violin, and then with ministrations from the same bow coaxes beautiful swansong from a crippled acoustic guitar - before it is enthusiastically beaten to death by Johny.

And now it is time to meet Log and Scott at the French House. The wonderful Francis Bacon loved this place. I love this place. Victor Lewis-Cunting-Smith loves this place. Around eighteen years ago, at a house party he was holding, and in colourful ten-year-old protest against the standard of his a) writing in "Private Eye" b) hair, I decimated his jelly-bean machine, and then pranked his buzzer three or four times with satisfactory results. I will tell you about this some time: I want to tell him first. I didn't get the chance this time.

Log's book is being launched next month. Order one: it's only about sixpence ha'penny. I organised this "do" chiefly for the people who contributed to the book and its website (although I also invited my dearest college chums). We accumulate online occasionally to call one another cunts, and earlier this year accumulated face-to-face, and so enjoyed calling one another cunts "IRL" that we now can't get enough of one another. And so Mr & Mrs Log and I find ourselves alarming a gentleman in a white panama hat with our scatological anecdotes and with the shaggy dog tale of Log's nan's pea-fetishist poodle. There's a phrase which would slip nicely into the shipping forecast.

Then we find Nick and Ben, in a pub which looked like a ferry. There is a toy on our table! Toy, toy, we found a toy! Still in its box and everything. Oriental logos add to the mystery. Imagine our dismay when a lady tells us it belongs to her son. She points him out. He is in his thirties and working a solitaire machine as though it were Orlando Bloom in a minidress. He probably needs his toy more than we do, so we reluctantly yield it (but we found it first!).

The next thing I know, I am upstairs at Monkey Chews. It is a lot like Mulholland Drive up there, from the interior decor to my daze. Dark wood, reddish candle light, distant ceiling, a Bayeux crapestry of NME heroes up the wall. In no time I am surrounded by several young gentlemen, at least a baker's dozen at any given point, of whom I am extremely fond. What can I do but put "Toxic" on the "wheels of steel", and try to hug them all at once? I feel sort of like the Queen Alien and sort of like Robin Hood. DoyouknowwhatImean? There is a mild fracas at one point, but the general mood is... well, look at the photos. I feel a little naked at the decks without a pair of headphones, but on the bonus side that leaves me free to dash about excitably. FourFootVauxhallCarlton is amusing Matt and me with a surprisingly funny monologue on Simon Weston. Slab Ghost is patrolling the room looking very pleased with himself. Tony from Kash Point has arrived, bless him, and is making my wallflower college chums feel at home. Aktualy he is urging them to try out Torture Garden, but they seem to be taking it in their stride. Even I don't want to go to Torture Garden, and I have a dark side, you know? I have an "Emily" wristband, and I once said guns were "sexy".

I don't know if I'm doing another "fit". Thanks for tuning in. I hope you didn't all think it was for real, and run screaming and wrist slashing onto the streets like when Orson did "War of the Worlds".

Clown and Pout in Perishing London #1

EPCOT photos here. More to come.

Fit the First: In which I journey from the World’s End to Mornington Crescent.

Don’t haul my luggage off the train, old lady! Stop, let me explain! Look, there’s your bag, no need to whine (please note it looks fuck all like mine).

The World’s End in Camden is “probably the biggest pub in the world”. I would like to play Laser Quest here, I am thinking. I would like a Guinness, I am thinking. My period has just started, I am thinking. It’s definitely not indigestion. I leave my precious things in a corner and nip to the lavatory. Sure enough, Aunt Flow has arrived and is trampling the geraniums agane.

Johny Brown is very busy with his play and his screenplay and his radio show, but he comes to fetch me. He lives just past Mornington Crescent, my favourite parlour game. I wonder if I win just by walking past it? Johny’s 5th floor flat is paved with lacquered maps of North England. Prone before the modest French window, blowing Drum smoke over the gardens below, I realise my right nipple is in Scarborough (doubtless haggling over a “Boob Inspector” hat), and my tummy button is You Are Here-ing my home town. This makes me Smile.

There’s a T.V. but it feels like there isn’t, and so my internal Eastenders alarm does not go off. I leaf through a big book on Witkiewicz, and fall in love with him. I inscribe “Anais NIN” and “Dorothy Parka” on my strait jacket with a Barbie biro. Johny asks me to write on his shirt, so I write “Nil Desperandum” over the breast pocket. I bathe in lovely blue water in the shiny white bath. The water back home is yellowish, even before I pee in it. Years ago, I would put new rats in the empty bath to pet and tame them. Johny is certainly a taming influence, but he is still as bright-eyed, inquisitive and skittish as either Ariadne or Lucy (may they rest in peace).

The light in the main room doesn’t work, and so as dusk falls the hall light drags across the room and the semi-darkness makes a feature of the strip-lit balconies on the building opposite. I apply red lipgloss in this gently elegant Hopper ambience. Johny doesn’t drink, so I mix my vodka with warm water and sugar, and listen to Resonance FM and Ween (The Mollusk) while he has a bath.

During my last few visits to London I’ve been Red Queened around the tubes and Clark Griswalded through the streets, and felt rather intimidated; but after a few minutes route-planning I am stoutened to realise that I find navigation absolutely no problem. Johny has coached me on blagging my way into Kash Point. I’m to name-drop Matthew Glamorre and say I’m helping him out with a project the next day. On reflection, I rather think I would have been struck down by pink lightning for taking his name in vain. The Gaultier sailor-boy charges me to get in - perhaps I should have taken off my Miss Sixty (O horror!) jeans and flashed my poor Colgate coloured pins. I don’t bother pressing the matter, having watched the cabaret act argue for five minutes before they were allowed in. I offer Euros (as specified on the flyer with engaging facetiousness), and he becomes satisfyingly flustered and almost apologetic.

A sympathetic and statuesque lady named Sarah has taken me under her black, lacy wing. Her ringlets brush the ceiling as she buys me a vodka and orange. She points out Dickon, whom I recognise from Tom’s Friendster, but it’s hard to introduce oneself so tenuously, squeezed in front of a speaker, even to such a gracious and patient creature. Sarah recognises several more people, and when they don’t (or won’t) recognise her, she tosses her hair like an embarrassed cat. I meet Rob, the skater-goth "Tommy" from 3rd Rock from the Sun, whose pretty girlfriend has yellow contact lenses. I meet an hourglass blonde in a black corset and top hat, with black glittery flowers on her nipples. Again, it’s too noisy to speak but she flashes me reassuring glances rather than snooty ones. Matthew Glamorre wriggles across the crowded dancefloor, bound up to his neck in a sleeping bag and covered in greasepaint. My brother and I were doing that twenty years ago, for chrissakes, but we didn’t call ourselves superstars, we called ourselves caterpillars. Sarah dances desperately until her rings fling from her fingers. She retrieves them with the help of a pen-torch, which she keeps in her handbag along with a tape measure and a magnifying glass. I present her with a packet of toilet seat covers to add to her equipment. We see a stocky man wearing nothing at all but a Cockney cap, boots and Ray-Ban shades. She points at him, then gestures to her lap, blurting with regret and resolution: “I’ve had the full op and I haven’t had sex with a man for six years”.

I dance with Sarah to Zongamin, The Normal, and Right Said Fred (this last mixed perfectly with Kraftwerk). The in-house cameraman, wearing a white stetson, waves his camera at me. Glamorre squeals and bitches into the mike like a tuppenny rent boy. I’m sitting on the back of my seat but I can’t see past the Glamoramas. I’m delighted by the spectacle but dismayed by the general attitude. I pop to the ladies’ and get a warm welcome from the cabaret act: a handful of beaming Ugly Sisters and Casey Spooners (Spacey Cooners, LOL). They have me pose with them for a photo, and I help one of them adjust his inflatable breasts.

A charming Mario face beams up at me, sticking out like a sore thumb. He’s not on the pull or on the catwalk - he’s not even drinking - he’s videoing the crowd for a personal project. His name is Tony and we have a normal, friendly conversation and a big hug.

They perch next to me like exotic birds. If I smile at them, they sneer and leave. If I ignore them, they ask for a light. If I make sure I hand over the lighter without making eye-contact, they offer lazy cat-blink acknowledgements in passing later on. I manage to ignore one of them with such success that he begins to soporifically chat me up: this is my signal to leave. On the way home, I am accosted by a young French guy. I can never resist speaking French to a native, but of course not all Frenchmen are Kevin Kline: some of them are Ned cunts saying “Come to my flat to smoke hash and listen to hard house. I will please you and you will please me.” I reply, “Listen to yourself, you’re ridiculous”, and send him packing. It’s a lot easier to be assertive in a foreign language.

When I wake up in Johny’s futon after a night of fitful rarebit dreams and cruel period pains, he is wearing nothing but tattoos and I feel like a groupie.

wank

fucking cunts

Baggagl, after 3 Taboo 'n' lemonades, wrote: "To be fair - he's not normally aggressive, he just didn't take too well to Jimbo being an absolute fucking cunt. I think he was remarkably restrained given the provocation. Anyway, that's all I'm going to say on the matter."

I maintain that Jimbo is an absolute fucking bunny hop, and although I didn't witness the "fracas", I can't see him provoking someone face-to-face without good reason.
Jimbo, being a bunny hop, yesterday. And Fourfoot, also an alleged cunt, being a bunny hop.