Junk Thunk.

White chocolate is creamy and dreamy, rum & raisin is boozy and brown but watching Scotch Connery play his part in ‘Diamonds are forever’ is just like old times. Old wooden times. Is it the drugs I’m on or are these ladies hotter than my velvet pants? Plenty O’Toole just entered the scene, and boy does she know how to make an entrance for our boy Bond’s benefit.

“A drink?”

Like I need a brain in my head and Plenty’s pants just hit the floor. These drugs are seeping all over my annoyance. They’re anti (in a Yankee accent please) psychotics(in a Swedish accent please) and they do everything that the graffiti on the wall says they do.

Like get a load of this; I called this dame today about her plans for expansion, which were on hold until she got her septic tank sorted out, and if I could be of any help.

Not bloody likely. There’s more chance of me dobbing-in ‘The Age’ for low editorial standards and an over abundance of fashionista social girly supplements on the weekend.

The pundits say that there is no future in paper newspapers, who cares? There’s no future in politics either but I don’t see anybody getting their knickers in a twist over it.

The future is irrelevant and not invited to this narco party. The future is what happens after breakfast and before Horlicks.

The future owes me money and I want it now.

Heck, that would be nice. But hold on there, isn’t that how the world works anyway? On the futures markets, sitting in hedge funds or massaging the cojones of the merchant wankers before martini time comes around again.

Crap, brutal, terrible, waste of money, like cheap coke, embarrassing, ball breaking, an abortion of a film and last but by no means least ...what happened? Are all words and phrases that I would use to describe the abomination that was ‘Catwoman’. For a few moments I did really, truly and honestly think that I was watching the new Fame film.

I need more drugs to cope with all this detritus.
Some tosser in Toorak today cheated on his boyfriend and fucked his own wife. I’m sure of it. I could smell an indecent sense of irony in the air as he reluctantly did the missionary thing.
If you don’t read about it in the papers this weekend it’ll be on commercial TV for dinner instead. On second thoughts it’ll end up as a juicy round five morsel in some form of trashy celebrity trivia.

These diamonds certainly aren’t forever or for me neither. Not all Bond films are worthy of the brand. Not all Melbournians wear black, not enough Melbournians are black. I wish that the mighty house on Spring street was down a dark alleyway behind a sleazy pool hall, at least then I would know where all the tragically thunk up trendoids are wallpapering of an evening.

“Doctor”

“What’s your diagnosis?”

“Did my lover give me psychosis?”

I hope they give me some more smarties.