Wussup Haters

From time to time the waffle house of my mind is consumed by a terrible feeling of self-loathing. It comes creeping while I sleep, grovelling out of my unconscious until it finds full voice in the morning. Before I know it I'm singing 'ooh baby I hate myself' in the shower to the tune of Peter Frampton's 'Baby I love your way'. The water can't wash away the tears. Once self-hatred has taken hold there's nothing you can do. You just have to ride it out.

Cocaine and pornography are of course great ways to induce self-disgust, but I find attending celebrity parties equally effective. Sunday's post BAFTA bash hosted by Prada was no exception. I got the call in the afternoon and immediately told myself I wasn't going. Seven hours later I rolled into The Double Club with all the ease of an automaton. Here's the problem: I superciliously pretend that I hate celebrity culture; I sneer at the E! head perverts who queue for hours just to smell Tom Cruise's Thetan farts at a premiere. But the truth is that I'm equally as fascinated by the famous. I'm just in denial about it. And that makes me a cunt - a cunt who's prepared to schlep all the way to Angel on Sunday night to stand in the same room as Mickey Rourke only to make a point of hating it.


So there I lurked in the corner of the club under the Congolese mural. After an hour I began not only to feel like a cunt, but also to actually resemble one - a yawning vulva with flappy labial ears and a distended clitoral nose. I clumsily spilt a glass of Champaign. Five waiters immediately surrounded me. The trickle of celebrities turned into a stream. I began to think like a cunt, slipping into an imaginary conversation with Mick Jagger as he walked past. Hello cunty. How's cunt face? Really. Still in Bad Cunt taking the waters. By now I was immersed in pure anger. Ooh baby I hate myself.

Then I bumped into Nima.