His arse is a cheese plant that needs repotting.
This week I am hyperware of my diaphragm, next week who knows?
Robbie’s pitch-black glasses, BFG headphones and deeply-toked cigarette are allegedly the exact trio that Leonardo DiCaprio utilises in the bedroom when fucking the lasses he makes sign NDAs to say they didn’t fuck. The man in the back with the lime shirt is every boy at my sixth form foam party, but he doesn’t have Reebok classics.
On a crisp winter’s night, there’s something eerily magical about a projecting the face of a murdered and mutilated woman on the wall near where it happened, for gawping-tourists. Aesthetically the projection is great—Victorian death portraits are cool, too—but it’s morally ambiguous, like fucking everything.
Despite this being a very public place to strip to your tighty-whites, I still feel like a peeping Tom, like I have to do seven hail marys in penance for my rubbernecking and blood-let like the albino in the Da Vinci Code.
My mate once said “the smaller your knickers the greater the comfort” which tracks here. These are the briefest of briefs, the closest you get to being in a thong without being in a thong. They feel like the shrank in the tumble drier, your school uniform after a sudden growth spurt, that jacket you still love from a marginally more svelte time. His arse is a cheese plant that needs repotting.
A fish that tastes like a cake is the dish you bite into after time travelling and realise you fucked up something major in the past and accidentally created a modern nirvana.
I like to think she’s going commando here as some kind of anti-establishment regal kink at the knickers launch. Lots of people think they’re sassy, it’s a modern curse, but being a royal is a protective gauze that quadruples ones feist. Who’s that wizened showgirl from Showgirls who tells Jessie from Saved by the Bell you are a whore darlin’? Feel like she says shit like this all the time just to make you wince.