Yep, it's Bank Holiday Monday!
The weekend's been a funny one. Last night, I wound up in a sex club because it was the only place that the music wasn't too loud, ranting at a man about Titian and Caravaggio until half three in the morning when I thought perhaps he might want to go off and have sex, rather than listen to me wax about colour and chiaroscuro. So, I took my penis out of his mouth and sent him packing.
It's made me think, though, that I really missed out on a fuck load of brilliant things over Easter because I've just been too busy being in a bit of a funk and spending too long either drawing or talking to people on the internet about Battlestar Galactica and looking at yet more hilarious links on facebook talking about how Jesus is a zombie. Woah, that's new, kids!
So, I've decided that I need to spend more time up to the elbow in the love of my life. Yup, I'm going to fist this city for all it's worth this week. First off, a gentle little poke with a trip to Alternamodernism at Tate Britain tomorrow, then a knuckle of coffee at the ICA, a poke of dinner with Caroline, then a deep breath and the next finger goes in. London looks at the bottle of poppers and I dive in to the Wellcome Collection on the day when I should have been having my arm hacked open and bone chiselled out. Third finger goes in. London says it needs me to take it slowly. So, Thursday, I'm going to try to do an illustrated version of one of The Magnetic Fields' 69 Love Songs, then play superhero games with the boys. On Friday, London's all lubed up and ready for the last big push. Deep breath, wince. Saatchi Gallery in Chelsea? New Whitechapel Gallery? Can London take it past the knuckles? I'm hoping that on Friday night I can convince people to go to see Johnny Woo, Le Gateau Chocolat and Underground Velvet at a Warhol-inspired night at Shunt and that this will send London's head into a spin, my fist right up in its seedy, grim arse and I can just push forward into the weekend with its pulse on my wrist until I can find so much to do there that I can get my fingernails into the city's throbbing heart and rip it out and eat it.
Fuck you, Vauxhall, with your stupid discos and your pupils the size of the craters in your face. My love for the gay club scene's vanishing faster than the hair on the scalp of a trans woman who heard about the Charing Cross clinic too late. Saying I love London but only seeing Chiswick, Vauxhall and the roads to Brockley just isn't good enough.
Who's coming with me on this adventure? Got any recommendations for fucked up strange places to go, see or do? I'm thinking seedy performance spaces where ugly men cut themselves while we cheer them on, I'm thinking martinis with a view over the world below, I'm thinking awful, stumbling cabaret. I'm thinking acid, not G. I'm thinking life drawing in the Eating Disorders Clinic. I'm thinking London needs us.
Take my hand, London. Take it, like the dirty fist-pig you are. Take it until the culture bleeds out.