Through groggy panes of god-knows-what yesterday I woke into one drug-knows-what after another. Slumped on a nylon leopard skin carpeted toilet and felt Dolly dressing me for the next round of Partying. As always it was sunday sunday.First she rolled me into silk seamed stocking bra suspender belt knicker corset, laced me into thigh boots, and strapped me into elbow and knee pads, a soft padded crash helmet and the black lace satanist party-frock completed the ensemble.

After jolting black coffee, something nice to take the chill off my semi-permeable bones. We began to talk.

“A duller spectacle this earth of ours has not to show than a rainy sunday in London” Dolly recalled.

“What day is it? Where are we?” I asked Dolly suddenly.

“Same as always. We’re in the wrong. For centuries they’ve tortured and murdered our kind, shot, gassed, hung, impaled and burned us at the stake. For being different, for resisting tyranny, for refusing to agree. They’ve called us terrorists, guerrillas, schizophrenics, psychopathics, heretics and witches. they think they’ve demonised us out of existence. But we’re still here, out on the margins, beyond the pale. Lifeless yet Undead.” Dolly paused for dramatic effect, the story was reaching a conclusion. “So why should we care if they’ve fucked up and the whole worlds going down the pan”

“I don’t give a fuck” I intoned religiously.

“Me neither” Flashed Dolly, “Let’s go and party.”…more…