The sober you claims Vogue is awful; it's uncouth; it's full of vulgar scantily clad desperate women and letchy men; there's too much sexual tension in there, and the barmaids are hired on their looks and not their speed behind the bar. However, the drunk you on a Saturday night has been drawn into Vogue, not only by it's airport-style security check ("oooooh, so exciting!"), but also by the flashy blue lights and thumping bass of the R and B tunes inside. Ok, so the girls working here are slow and need to hurry up, and ok, there are a lot of creepy men in here, and ok, so the leather booths look a bit like people are having sex in them on the sly: but you can still have fun right? Look at all those women twerking! Look at the massive pictures of fit male celebrities on the ladies toilet doors! Look at that girl grind against that huge 20 stone man! Why can't you grind like that? You try it on your boyfriend, who gives you the dirtiest look imaginable, and then you come to your senses and realise it's time to make an extremely quick exit before you embarrass yourself further.
I love Stephen King and music festivals; I eat my toast upside down; I daydream about getting married probably a bit too much; and I wish every day for a pet sausage dog puppy (who never materialises – sob).
