QUEEN BITCH (in Brighton)
January 2007

A (slightly belated) happy new year to all my pretties and proletarians and apologies for the delay in my return. No, my pen did not run out of poison and, in fact, I have enough venom welling to cause bile in a rattlesnake, thank you very much. Rather, yours truly has simply been busy and my subjects have been, not forgotten, exactly, but put on a slow burning spit whilst I attended to things of far greater importance than Brightonian flotsam and jetsam.

Once again, you may prepare to be enraged and insulted, because I have a nicely sharpened bone to pick with all of you. Before I begin my rant, I want to tell you a little story; a tale which, to some, may seem like a myth, because I seriously doubt the worst offenders amongst you will have any mental comprehension of such civility.

Once upon a time, in the olden days, lived a select number of promoters, partygoers and DJs. All as wild and wicked as each other, these creatures managed to live, if not always happily, at least in harmony with each other. Every month of every year, the creatures came together to discuss how best to allocate their talents and time, ensuring that their ventures and venues could co-exist in the same world. Such summit meetings and face-to-face communications (take heed, backbiting cowards who dare not speaketh thy mind to thy perceived enemy) were not only recognised as crucial, but also as a basic form of etiquette amongst peers.

Yes, my darlings, in the olden days of club promotion, the promoters used to actually talk to each other (shock and horror!) and work together to arrange their various nights in such a way as to avoid date clashes. Furthermore, in the olden days, promoters used to (even more shockingly!) share their venues, their staff and their supporters.

Now, far be it for even I to cast the aspersion that all promoters in our hometown are lacking in the basic fundamental skill of being able to converse in compromise and agreement. There are certain individuals most amenable in the assistance of affiliates and friends, to whom I am the first to extend a gracious smile, but alas, they are the minority.

It saddens my troll-guarded and blackened heart to witness the pathetic, petty, misguidedly precious and downright retarded sheep bleating of the majority. People, people, what is your problem? I can only assume the worst; that you are so crushingly inept and insecure that you fear any form of healthy competition. May I suggest that the next time you gross profit from your enterprises, you invest a percentage in a good old-fashioned session with a neurosis-busting therapist? Alternatively, perhaps you may like to start a Promoters Anonymous group? After all, transference-based self-help groups are crashingly common in Brightonandhove, are they not?

To those whom have escaped a mortal blow thus far I say this; do not laugh too loud, because this is not the only form of sociopathy I have noted of late. Secondary suffers fall into two distinct, yet intrinsically linked, categories.

Firstly we have that which I like to call the Bukowski, i.e. the character who either genuinely believes, or pretends to believe, in the excellence of something which is, quite frankly, a pile of shit. This includes a pseudo-predilection for obscure and rarely frequented establishments in the fetish genre. Said sufferer of this affliction will, in a ridiculously pretentious tone and holding not an ounce of personal style nor charisma, say something along the lines of, “Ah yes, I was at the Grotesque Pretend Domme night last week … ah haaaa … and guess who I saw … yes, a Grotesque Pretend Domme!” in an attempt to appear clever/cool/cultish. Yes, sonny Jim, there is a reason no one has ever heard of it and that is because it is rubbish and we would rather destroy £5k worth of dental work by gnawing off our own legs at the knee than haul our hides to such a place.

Now children, it is time for the secondary sociopathic pretension I would like to draw your attention to and I suspect that there are many of you who have fallen foul to this one. I cannot help but snigger to myself as my fingers click clack across my keyboard and I would be most disappointed if this one does not cause a hue and cry. I can condense it into two words; fucking hippies. Yes darlings, fucking hippies. I cannot abide stinking fucking hippies and, for some reason which escapes me, they appear to have become terribly (with emphasis on the terrible) popular within the Brighton fetish scene. Why, oh why, does having a stinking hippy in one’s club mean anything other than the fact that they make the venue smell of, as someone once succinctly put it, “doggy woggies”?

The fetish scene used to be an antithesis to the sociological norm, so why subscribe to the most base and boring sub-standards of the country’s brain-numbing consumerism? If that is what you aspire to, then you may as well rip off your rubber and burn it, in the way feminists once burned their bras, then grab yourself a nice McDonalds dinner and devour it with aplomb whilst watching Channel 4. Enough said.

Toodle pip until next time.

Your very own Queen Bitch xxx