My darlings! Your Lesbina writes you from the marginally comfortable surroundings of the first class coach headed home from The London. What a day I’ve had with my good friend Muriel Upson-Downes. She called me last night following a tip off that my ginger foe Winifred Sparrow was at large in the West End. I keep a tight eye on her movements these days, being a firm believer in friends close, enemies closer!
Masquerading as a ticket girl, my Cockney Stoolpigeon Muriel assured me that Winifred would be in attendance at tonight’s performance of Wicked. Ever since we both worked on the manuscript that would fatefully be stolen and turned into a worldwide hit of the stage, she’s been racked with rage and anger, whereas I have found the blow somewhat cushioned. I was paid royally for handing over the rights to that vulture Gregory Maguire, but alas Winifred wasn’t quite part of that deal.
So upon finding out she would be in The London I was on the first train I could find, obviously bringing my own velvet rope to ensure my privacy in Coach K. With my beloved Sara on my knee I couldn’t help but be lulled by the rolling hills of our wondrous British countryside. O! England, my Lionheart!
My vengeful heart picked up it’s pace once I arrived in the Big Smoke and was met at Euston by my marvellous Muriel. How wonderful she looks since her face transplant. Once in her Jaguar I realised I didn’t actually have a plan. What would I do to dispatch Winifred, kick her from the merry-go-round once and for all? Muriel then revealed Winifred had booked her own box for the show. That was how I would do it, I would infiltrate my ex-lover’s box and commit the dirty deed mid-show! But what method?
No mind, thought I! The priority was to slip into the crowds unnoticed. Luckily, Muriel’s horrific accident during a chemical peel resulted in her buying every kind of wig under the sun, so I adorned my head with a brunette switch, arranged halo-like around my face. And, thanks to my lock-picking skills acquired in Holloway Prison in 1982, I found my way into the makeup department at the theatre where I proceeded to black up, harking back to my days as an extra in those funny Marx Brothers films. Poor Sara got the shock of her life when she saw Mummy the Minstrel. It put her right off her crickets.
So in my cunning disguise I found my way to the VIP area, and as the show thrilled it’s gawping drooling audience I crept up the back passage and prepared to accost Winifred, end our feud once and for all. I decided I would do it with my own bare hands. With my grip I have been known to snap many a Russian mercenary’s neck in two. I’m not one to be messed with. So there I was, my eyes were on my prize, sat there with her ginger curls tossed back as she laughed her crone-like cackle, clearly disgusted with the bastardisation of her hard work on the West End stage below her. I reached out, and in one fell swoop, I had my prey beneath me on the ground.
You can imagine my surprise, and utter disappointment, to find I had the wrong box and in my vice-like grip squirmed poor Mick Hucknall. As he screamed ‘Be cool sistah, my death-like pallor hides the soul of a Nubian prince!’, I was distracted by the glint of light in a binocular lens. Winifred had switched boxes at the last minute and flashed a smug smile before ducking out through her velvet curtains and stealing off into the busy London night.
My ginger foe had foxed me once more!
My spirits low, I retreated into the cold London night, with Muriel doing her darnedest to try and cheer me up. We deposited Sara at our suite in Claridge’s – did you know they have separate rooms for Iguanas? And then descended upon Soho. After Langoustine Linguini on Crustini at Groucho’s and seven bottles of Veuve Cliquot at Ketner’s, followed by a bag of pork scratchings Muriel coaxed off a rickshaw driver, I was treated to some fervent cunnilinguini at the best underground brothel in Shaftesbury Avenue.
I have to say Muriel always knows just what to get me. I orgasmed past myself and awoke in a heap the next morning back at the hotel. I think Muriel had thrown some Rohypnol in with the price of the whore. Not enough so I’d forget my experience with the Monica Belluci lookalike ‘twixt my milky thighs, but enough so I wouldn’t have to worry about the rickshaw ride back to Claridge’s.
After breakfast at the Paramount Members Club with my darling Gok One I was off to meet June Brown for jellied eels and pie and mash down the Fortress Road in old Kentish Town. I find it’s always good to have a catch up with old friends before Christmas. Especially when your friends are so old it may be their last. June’s not quite on the colostomy bag yet but give it time.
I do have to get my affairs in order before I head out to LA. As soon as I’m back at Fallopia Towers I’ll be beavering away until the wee small hours. I do hope Muff is prepared for a long dark night. In fact I’ll give her a call now and make sure we’re stocked up on gin. I go through more of that stuff than Vera Drake.
Toodle pip x
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